To Catch You
by elsalovelove
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet, and an epic story of the era begins. What is it that Sherlock Holmes is desperately trying to catch? A serial killer, family, or even possibly, love? Mostly Adventure and Drama in part 1, and then mostly romance stuff in part 2. Yes, I will be uploading both parts in this. Rated T. Occasional cursing, minor smut, angst, fluff.
1. Collision

***Hi! So this is my first time writing crime/romance/angst fan fiction(normally I write fiction/fantasy), so please understand if some events don't really link or doesn't make sense. Please leave reviews to let me know what to improve and what you enjoyed!

The overwhelming sound of the exploding bombs and firing of the guns tore John's ears. Bullets so fast that he could not even see flew everywhere, and he got down, pressed against the cold mud. His vision was a blur, and he helplessly watched as his friends got shot down, one by one. The heavy strap gun at his side dangled, as if daring him to shoot. Just then, a bullet raced towards him.

"Aah!"

He blinked his eyes open. A dream. He'd been having the nightmare everyday since he was dismissed from the war due to his injury.

He leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He was even too tired, too empty for tears. He just wanted this to stop. For the pain to stop. For the nightmares to stop. He just wanted some peace, that was all. And this bloody world was giving him just the opposite.

John Watson, former army doctor of the Afghanistan war. He'd gotten a flat in London, where he payed off the rent with part-time jobs. He was tired of his life. He wished he'd died in the war. People thought that army was a horrible place, but it was the opposite for him. He felt comfortable there because it meant steady meal. He had someone to command him, someone to tell him what to do next. Here, he had to find his way himself.

He sighed and got up, getting ready to go to his therapist, though he knew that it wasn't going to help him much.

"Let it all out," soothed Ella, his therapist.

"Let what out?" retorted John. He was tired of this. Everyday, he had hope that maybe today he was not going to have the nightmare again. And everyday, he was disappointed.

Ella sighed. John felt a pang of guilt, but it didn't stop him from being so snappish. She didn't _know_ , for heaven's sake. He was tired of people trying to empathise with him, when they just didn't understand. He wasn't sad or upset or scared. He was just… empty.

"John," she started, but he stopped her.

"I know, I'm sorry." He leaned back into his chair. "I had another nightmare."

"About the war?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it will ever go away?" Same routine of questions. Everyday. And useless ones, too.

"I don't think so. At least not entirely."

"You need a friend, John." The question took him completely off guard, and he felt heat rising to his face. _Yes, I'm the loner with not friend, good point._

"Yeah, okay." He coughed, hoping that the awkwardness doesn't show off. Ella seemed to pick it up anyway.

"Seriously, it will help a lot. A close friend to take the burden off your shoulder and make you forget what happened, at least a bit." Ella looked into his eyes, and he could see that she was sincere. He nodded, if only to make her happy.

"Maybe… get a flatmate. Don't just live alone, have someone to make sure that you're okay, make sure you're eating. Someone to soothe you when you have one of your nightmares." John nodded, but he didn't let his hopes grow. Who would want to be flatmates with him, anyway? John Watson, the helpless and broken army doctor. He wasn't even sure he was a doctor anymore, not now. He couldn't even cure himself.

A few hours later, he met up with Mike, his colleague. They talked about nothing for some time, about the weather, their job, their life.

"Ah, how much have hanged since we parted," sighed Mike, his belly jiggling as he leaned back in his chair, munching happily on a donut. John smiled, but his mind was on something else.

"Listen, Mike. My therapist… she said that it would help a lot if I had a trustworthy friend to… you know, take off the burden a bit, and make me forget what happened there." He rubbed his hands against his knee. This was getting awkward. He wished he had shut his mouth. "So, ah…"

"Oh! I know a friend — I mean colleague — who also needs a friend. More specifically, a flatmate. Would you like to meet him?"

John looked up from his hands, surprised. He had proposed to _Mike_ to be his friend, but he seemed to not have gotten the message. Oh, well. It was fine either way. Who would want to be flatmates with him anyway? He was sure that after hearing his story, the man would politely nod and smile until it was time for them to part.

"Yeah, okay."

Mike smiled, getting up. He swept away some donut crumbs at the side of his mouth, and patted John on the shoulder. "Follow me, then."

"Wake up, my baby brother-who-owes-me-since-you-live-in-my-house!"

Sherlock startled at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He felt a surge of annoyance tug at his stomach. "Will you _stop_ it?"

"No, I shall not, brother-of-mine-who-lives-in-my-house-since-he-got-kicked-out-of-everywhere- else. You should be grateful and be on your knees, thanking me, shouldn't you?" Mycroft smirked. He always loved taunting Sherlock.

Finally, with a sigh, Sherlock got up, dressed, and opened up his laptop. He signed onto his website, _The Science of Deduction_ , and typed away.

"What are you doing now, brother-who-lives-in-my-house?"

"That's it!" Sherlock shut the laptop with a loud bang and put on his coat. "I'm getting a flat!"

"As if you can, _baby brother._ No one will take in a psychopath."

Sherlock walked up to Mycroft, coming nose-to-nose with him. Temporary rage boiled at the pit of his stomach. "I am _not_ your _baby_ brother, and as I've explained _thousand_ of times before, I'm a _high-functioning sociopath,_ NOT A PSYCHOPATH!" And with that, he banged the door shut, breathing hard.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Baker Street, where he visited Mrs. Hudson, a landlady he knew well. Though he secretly cared for the old lady, he carefully hid his affection well, afraid of his own emotion.

"Oh, Sherlock!" cried Mrs. Hudson when she caught glimpse of him in her cafe. She quickly slid off her apron and ran out to greet him. Grabbing his face, she cheek-kissed him, affectionately petting his back. Impatient and uncomfortable, Sherlock drew back, frowning. Emotional scenes always made his fidgety.

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson. Quite nice to see you. Do you have a flat you could rent me?"

Mrs. Hudson, being used to his abrupt and straight-forward manners, wasn't surprised at all. "Why, have you fought with your brother? And yes, I _do_ have a flat at 221B. Come on up, I'll show you."

Muttering thanks, Sherlock followed her upstairs. 221B was a nice and simple flat, and he had to admit that he rather liked it. It had a cozy atmosphere, and overlooked the street. "Yes, yes, this'll do great. No requirements or anything?"

"Oh, I don't know. Get a flatmate, won't you? Preferably a doctor, mind. My bones aren't the same as before…" she giggled and trailed off downstairs. She meant it as a joke — I mean, who _would_ believe that _anyone_ would want to be flatmates with _Sherlock?_ — but he took it seriously. He cocked his head, trying to figure out who would want to be flatmates with _him._ As he knew no doctor, he went out, muttering to himself. It occurred to him that Mike _was_ some sort of doctor after all. He decided that he would have to talk to him, though he didn't really like Mike.

John nervously stood at the door to Sherlock Holmes's lab, gripping his walking stick tightly. He _was_ about to meet his potential new flatmate. Mike knocked on the door, to which a very female voice replied, "Come in!"

Startled, John glanced at Mike. Was he suggesting that he get a flat with a _woman?_ Especially a _stranger woman?_

He shot Mike a sharp look, but he just opened the door, smiling mysteriously. John nervously went in, wondering at what to say. The first thing that caught his eyes were the equipments in the white lab, everything from microscopes to X-rays. Then, he caught sight of a man intently staring at a substance. Relieved, John assumed the man was Sherlock, and he was relieved. He didn't know what he would have done if Mike had actually taken him to a stranger woman to get a flat together. He coughed to get Sherlock's attention, but the man either completely ignored him or had not heard him. John decided to believe the second option.

A pretty woman, the one John assumed who had answered the knock, came out from behind a tall machine. carrying a big bucket. John almost choked with surprise when he took a glance at it.

"Is that - Is that a _brain?"_

"Yeah," she replied. She didn't even look remotely disgusted. Finally, the man, Sherlock, looked up. John felt strange under his glare. It felt like the man was scanning him.

"Former army doctor in the Afghanistan war, sent back because of your injury, right?"

"How did you know all that?" he certainly felt strange now. But not scared. No, he've seen much more horrible and surprising things than this.

"Observation," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "People see, but don't observe." He placed his hands together under his chin as if praying.

"Yeah, okay," John straightened, hoping that he didn't look as baffled as he felt. Sherlock stood up and took off his gloves. "I'm John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes, address is 221B Baker Street. Meet you tomorrow 7 pm at the flat, give you some time to pack up your stuff and come." Then, smiling widely, Sherlock was out of the lab.

"What?" John turned to look at Mike, who was chuckling. "We've literally just met and he wants to get a flat with me?"

"Yeah, he does that. Sorry," called the pretty woman, now eyeing a plate full of green liquid. "Name's Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you."

"Um, I'm John." he coughed. God, why did he have to be so awkward? "I'm… well, you heard what he observed. I was an army doctor."

"Mmm hmm," mumbled Molly. She was mixing some substances.

"Well, it was nice to see you. Gotta go now." John looked back to say goodbye, but her back was turned to him. Sighing, he dragged Mike with him, who was trying to flirt with Molly.

He didn't know why he'd accepted the offer to be that man's flatmate, but for some reason, he was inexplicably drawn to him.

"Well, did you find your _flatmate,_ then?" prompted Mrs. Hudson when he entered the flat. She giggled at the impossibility.

"Yes, actually," replied Sherlock, pretending to be offended by her incredulous look. "Why, is it that surprising? For a sociopath to find a flatmate?"

"It _is_ very surprising, really," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she sat down his tea on the coffee table. Sherlock plopped into his usual chair by the table, falling into his usual 'thinking' posture. "Who is it, then?"

Very annoyed, he hastily replied, "A retired army doctor, Dr. John Watson."

"Ooh, a doctor!" Mrs. Hudson squealed, opening the fridge to check that he had enough to eat as he ' _never_ went out to buy foods,' as Mrs. Hudson muttered all the time. She shuffled to his seat and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "You really _have_ been trying to make friends, haven't you! And a useful one, too! Now I can get my hip tended, see." Then, she made to go down the stairs when she suddenly stopped. Sherlock shifted, annoyed. He could sense that she was about to ask another question.

"Wait, he's not like… _you_ , is he?"

He snapped his head to her direction. "Like _me?_ What's that supposed to mean?"

The old landlady scrunched up her face, trying to find the right words. One wrong word and Sherlock might erupt into one of his 'states,' as she called it. "Well, you know. A bit… crazy and noisy."

Sherlock sharply drew in his breath. This conversation was getting really annoying now. "Mrs. Hudson, if you call highly intelligent but anti-social people 'crazy and noisy,' then no, the man is not very intelligent, and not at all anti-social. Now please go away so that I can think. And please check the mail for me."

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she stomped downstairs.

Sherlock sighed. Really, as much as he did not hate Mrs. Hudson as much as anybody else, she _did_ get annoying sometimes. Or most of the times.

"Could — you — help — me, Mr. Holmes?" gasped John as he tried to drag all of his luggages up to the flat. It was very hard to carry a big bag up a narrow staircase, especially with a _bloody limp._ Sherlock, who had been _thinking,_ opened his eyes.

"What? No. I'm _thinking._ Also, Sherlock suits me just fine. For God's sake, we'll be living together. Off with the formality."

"Yeah, okay," sighed John as he finally got all the way upstairs and threw his bag on the floor. He looked around, taking in the sight of his new home. It actually looked quite cozy and comfortable. "So, where's my room?"

Sherlock looked quite confused. "Your _room?"_

"Yes, my room. Where would I be sleeping?"

"Isn't the couch a great place to sleep? Look, it's all comfy." To prove his point, Sherlock got up with a grunt and threw himself onto the big couch.

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What? I don't even get a _bed?_ For Christ's sake." He sat down onto another couch, opposite from where Sherlock had been sitting moment ago. He glanced at the cold tea at the coffee table. "Where do _you_ sleep, then?"

"Why, right there," Sherlock pointed at the far room at the corner, just across a short hall. John snorted, getting really pissed off now.

"So you get a room, and _I_ don't?"

"Problem?" Sherlock looked up at him so innocently that he gave up and started unpacking his things. Nothing much, really. Just some clothes. Then Sherlock smirked, chuckling. John looked up, his face crumpled. "What?"

"Did you really believe that I would be so arrogant as to give myself a bedroom and you none? Really, do I look that careless?" John suppressed the urge to reply 'yes.' Sherlock continued. "Your bedroom is upstairs."

"Sherlock," called the landlady from down below. "Is Mr. Watson here?"

"Yes, yes," replied Sherlock, clearly bored. John got the feeling that the old woman have been asking the question more than once before.

"Yes, hello," John said when she finally hobbled upstairs. Giggling, she cheek-kissed him twice and hugged him tightly. Unaccustomed to such affection, John stiffly patted her on the shoulder. "John Watson, Mrs…"

"Mrs. Hudson, dear. Oh, I've heard of you. An army doctor! Dreadful war, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson squealed.

"Ah, yes. Quite nice to meet you too."

Just then, Sherlock's phone rang. Sighing, he fished the phone out of his pocket and got it.

"Yes? Dead?" John's head snapped up, shocked. He turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, expecting her to look horrified, but she only _tut-tutted_ and muttered something about being glad that Sherlock wasn't going to be bored anymore. Frowning, John listened to the rest of the conversation, which was not much. A slow smile spread on Sherlock's face. "Yes. I'll be there in five minutes."

Sherlock got up, put on his coat, and ran down the stairs before remembering John. Popping his head back inside the flat, he called, "You coming?"

Incredulous, John stared at him. "You mean, I should come to investigate a dead body?"

Sherlock squinted at him as if that was perfectly obvious. John sighed, annoyed. He was starting to hate that oh-come-on-isn't-it-obvious look. Clearing his throat, he replied, "Yeah, I'll go."

Even before the he finished his sentence, Sherlock fled downstairs. Grunting, he stood up, straightened his shirt, and followed Sherlock, hobbling. He wasn't sure if he liked this new flatmate of his or not, but he couldn't deny that Sherlock was rather an intriguing man.

"Sherlock," nodded Lestrade as he stepped into the murder scene.

"Yes, Gavin, what is it this time?"

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock smirked internally. He knew that it was Greg, but he loved pissing him off. "It's _Greg._ And a car accident, it seems, only it's happening abnormally a lot in a row in the same style. We're not quite sure if it's murder or not, but it seems like it. We tried checking the black box, but we couldn't find much of them, and in the few we've found, the number is either too smudged to recognise or it's sprayed with yellow paint."

Without replying, Sherlock walked around the car, taking in details.

 _3 years in use. The back crumpled from the crash. Stuffed animals covering the back window._

He barely noticed as John came hurrying in. "Sherlock!"

"I'm sorry, you can't come in here."

Sherlock looked up to find John blocked by Donovan. Carelessly, he muttered, "Let him in."

"What?"

"He's with me. Let him in." He got to the driver's seat, where a woman had been killed in the car crash.

 _24 years old. Japanese-American. Unmarried. Has a boyfriend who is cheating on her. Right-handed. Wheel driven into her chest, immediately killed after the collision._

He vaguely heard John introducing himself to Lestrade. "John Watson, former Afghanistan war army doctor."

"John, come here," muttered Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Come. Here."

As John hobbled up next to him, he pointed at the woman. "Tell me, how many hours have she been dead?"

Clearing his throat, John squatted and took the wrist of the dead woman. After inspecting the body for a few seconds, he confirmed, "about an hour ago."

"I thought so."

"What?"

God, he was getting tired of people making him repeat everything. So instead, Sherlock decided to ignore it. It was much easier that way.

"Connection," he breathed. "I need to see the other cars."

"What?" This time, it was Lestrade. Feeling his temper rise, Sherlock fired back at him.

" _Where. Are. The. Other. Cars?_ For God's sake, _why can't you just listen?_ Do you have problems listening or _are you just stupid?"_ Seeing that Lestrade drew back with an injured look, he calmed his temper. "No, no, no, don't get offended. I'm talking generally."

Lestrade, used to his outbursts, sniffed and seemed to forget what Sherlock had said. "Yeah, follow me."

John still looked at bit alarmed at his temporary rage, but Sherlock tried to ignore it. Now was not the time.

John stared at Sherlock while they were driving to the scene. The man was strange… yet fascinating. He was mysterious, but he was blunt. He was fascinating, yet intimidating. He was unlike anyone he'd ever met.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" John flinched and turned his head to look ahead. Sherlock, apparently uncomfortable, shifted in his seat. John could feel heat creeping up his neck.

"I — um — sorry," he stuttered. Did he look like he _liked_ Sherlock? _Like-like?_

"No… it's okay," muttered Sherlock. An awkward silence fell, and he felt sheepish.

"Got yourself a boyfriend, then?" crowed Anderson, who was driving the car.

"I'm not his boyfriend—"

"Shut up, Anderson," snapped Sherlock. John didn't know whether to laugh or be ashamed.

This car was trashed at the side of a highway. Sherlock circled around the car, taking in all information he can. _Japanese anime lover. Collision at the back. Lives alone. Anime stickers on the back window. Driver is obese. His mother died about an year ago._

Squinting, he crept up to the driver's seat, where a fat man of about 47 was sprawled on the seat. He had a few whiskers of hair and broken glasses. _Right handed, Anime lover, Drinking habits, Video game addict._

Sighing, he realised that he would have to go to every single one of the cars to clearly make a connection. This wasn't proving to be a very exciting case, as there weren't exactly clues. He glanced at his watch. It was just past midnight.

"I'm going," he muttered to Lestrade. Lestrade's eyebrows arched, surprised, but he didn't object. "Send me the pictures of all the cars."

"Yeah, alright." He shuffled closer. "Listen, if you happen to have any idea of what's going on, let me know immediately. I don't want to see any more corpses."

Smirking, Sherlock barely nodded. He nodded to John, who was leaning on to his crutch at the side, afraid of interfering. "Come on. Aren't you going?"

John looked at him and nodded, his face strangely slack. _Never mind,_ Sherlock told himself. _A dumb flatmate is better than a smart-arse._

They got a cab after walking for some time and sat in an awkward silence. John shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock had forgotten that most people found total silence unnerving or awkward. He made to say something when John said, "So, what's your job? Some kind of detective?"

" _Consulting_ detective." John looked puzzled at the statement, so Sherlock cleared it up for him. "You might not have heard of it. I'm the world's _only_ consulting detective, I invented the job."

John looked still mystified. "Ah, so, what does a consulting detective do, then?"

"Police come to me when they can't solve case, which is always." He may have sounded arrogant, but he didn't really care. It was true, anyway. To his dismay, John laughed outright, though he seemed to think better of it and tired to disguise it as a cough. "What?"

"No, it's just…" John smirked, glancing at Sherlock's incredulous face. "No offence, but police don't consult amateurs."

"Amateurs?" he'd never heard a more insulting word than that. " _Amateur?_ Well, I'll show you what this _amateur_ can do. I see that you are an ex-army doctor, as already said, and that you retired from a leg injury. You have a limp, but it is at least partly psychosomatic, which means that it's related to mental problems. You have a therapist, but the therapist isn't really helping you, is she? Also, you have an alcoholic brother who had just left his wife." He paused, having said all this in one breath. He didn't glance at John; he was too intent on impressing him.

"Now, how did I know all this? Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, tells me that you've been in military for some time. Tanned face, but not above the wrists, means that you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Also, you have limp so bad that you can't walk without a crutch, but when you stand still you don't ask for a chair, like you've forgotten about it. This shows that it's at least partly psychosomatic. Of course you have a therapist, you are so traumatised that you have limp caused because of the trauma. But your dark circle under your eyes shows sleeplessness, nightmares, and you're not taking care of yourself. So the therapist isn't really helping you. Now, your phone, it's a very expensive model. But you're not the kind of man who will spend money on luxuries like this, your clothes and your skin, everything shows that. Also, the scratches, it's been in a pocket full of coins and keys. You wouldn't treat a luxury like that. So it's a present. The name on the back: Harry Watson, so clearly a family member, but who is he? Not your father, this model was a possession of a young man. Possibly a cousin, but not likely because it's unlikely that you've got an extended family, so a brother. The _xxx from Clara_ bit shows romantic attachment, but the cost, it must be expensive, so a wife, not girlfriend. He left her, that's the reason he's giving the phone away to you. If it was the other way around, he would've kept the phone, people do, sentiment. But no, he's giving it away, so _he's_ left _her_. Now, the scratches around the power connection, that means that his hand is shaking when he's connecting it. So he's an alcoholic. Am I right?" He panted for breath, glancing at John, who was staring at him like he had just performed a magic trick. He prepared for the worst, as he had been called many unpleasant things for making some obvious deductions.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't _know,_ I saw and observed."

"That's… that's… bloody _brilliant!"_ Sherlock blinked his eyes in surprise. He'd been called a freak, a psychopath — which wasn't even correct, for God's sake — but never _brilliant._

"You — you think so?" He was still uncertain, still unsure.

"Yes, of course. That's really bloody fascinating!"

He glanced at John, certain that he was joking. But John's eyes were actually lit up with excitement and wonder. He had those puppy eyes, and Sherlock coughed and looked forward, heat creeping up his cheeks.

"Thank… you?" It almost sounded like a question, and he laughed. John laughed with him, and they laughed until Sherlock stopped abruptly. John glanced at him, surprised.

"What?"

"No, it's just…" he didn't know how to describe the feeling. "It's just…new."

John looked as if he wanted more explanation, but Sherlock had to stop there. It was new to him. To have someone laugh with him, not _at_ him. It was new that someone called him brilliant, _fascinating._ He didn't know what to think. He thought… he thought he liked it. And he wanted John to know that he liked it.

"John," Sherlock began, peeping at him. John looked unnerved and uncomfortable. "I think you should know that I've never laughed together with someone before, and I've never been called _brilliant._ I've always been a freak, a psychopath — which is not correct by the way, I'm a high functioning sociopath — but never brilliant or fascinating. And it's quite new to me to be this open to anyone, too. I know that you may be uncomfortable and maybe afraid right now, because I can be quite unnerving and frightening sometimes, I know. But in time, I'll try to be open to you, because flatmates have to be open to each other."

John looked a bit surprised but also a bit gratified. "I — thank you. It's new to me, too. I hope we can be great friends."

 _Friends_. A quite new concept for him. He cocked his head at the word, amazed. No-one had proposed to be his friend before, let alone _great_ friend. Nor had he wanted to be anybody's friend. But now, he wasn't so sure. He thought that he rather liked John's company.

They went into the house, awkward. Mrs. Hudson greeted them both by a quick cheek-kiss. John went upstairs to his bedroom to tidy things up.

"Mrs. Hudson, a cup of tea would be lovely," sighed Sherlock as took off his heavy coat and scarf. He plopped down onto the couch, tired but strangely calm and pleasant. He felt… very light and fluffy. _Fluffy?_ He almost laughed at himself for being so ridiculous.

"Now, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson shuffled about, reproaching but consenting to his request. Suddenly, he had a strong desire to tell her that he appreciated her.

"Mrs. Hudson," he started, breathless with excitement and adrenaline. Mrs. Hudson, to his annoyance, did not stop fussing about and pouring some hot water into the cup. "I want you to know that I appreciate that you haven't kicked me out of your flat yet and that you'll make tea for me."

Mrs. Hudson put the hot cup of tea on the coffee table and stared at him as if he'd grown a third arm. "Sherlock, you feeling okay? Are you high? Have you been on drugs? I _knew_ that I should've gotten rid of those drugs in the garage."

"There are drugs at the garage?" This new piece of information surprised Sherlock so much that he forgot about his appreciation for Mrs. Hudson.

"Just some for my hips. Do not even _think_ of it, Mr!" But she seemed rather pleased and gently patted him on the cheeks before she went downstairs. Sherlock cocked his head again. Lots of new things and emotions were happening to him today.

John sat on the edge of his new — actually it was quite old, but anyway — bed and thought about today. It had been such a wild day that he couldn't quite believe that it had been just one day. He'd moved into his new flat, where he met his new flatmate, Sherlock, for the second time, who turned out to be a scary, intimidating, and fascinating psychopath, and he'd seen two people killed in a car crash, possibly by a serial killer. And this new emotion he couldn't quite put a finger on… it was bothering him and making him feel stupid for his heart being so fluttered and fluffy. He was inexplicably drawn to Sherlock Holmes, though feeling the danger he was getting into. It was like a tempting mouse trap, where he could obviously see the trap but was strongly tempted to go into it. And the cheese was the fascinating Sherlock Holmes.

 _For God's sake, John._ He laughed at himself for being so cheesy. Really, _the cheese was the fascinating Sherlock Holmes?_

But he couldn't deny that he felt a strong emotion when Sherlock said that the emotion of doing something together with someone, the emotion of having a companion, a _friend,_ was new to him, because it was new to him, too. He didn't have a real friend he could call at the time of need, not really. He didn't have any one to call up when he was having a nightmare or having the worst day of his life. All of them, they were not _friends._ They were playmates, going in and out of his life, flickering in and out of the spotlight.

For some reason, he felt like he wouldn't have a nightmare this night.

Sherlock stared at the photos of cars, trying to find a connection. _There must be a connection… a connection… connection…_

"Sherlock?"

He barely noticed John coming into the living room. He continued muttering.

"The first was a Japanese-American Women, Unmarried, and the second was a middle-aged man, unmarried, lived alone, likes Japanese Anime, and this one," he struck his finger at the photo of a woman lying dead on the driver's seat. "She was married, but had problems with her husband… And the next one, he was a college student, had a girlfriend, only one parent… All of them, all of the cars were hit from the back. So something about the back side…"

He flipped through the photos and through his mind, trying to find a connection. _A connection, a connection…_

" _Connection._ The back, what's so special about the back side? The murderer must have seen the back side of the car and wanted to kill the driver… The back side, the back side… Make a connection. There must be a connection… oh." He opened his eyes, his brain whirring and clicking. Realisation hit him like a stone, and he felt familiar adrenaline running through his veins. John, who had been making breakfast, glanced at him.

"Sherlock?"

"Oh! Not the back side, the _back window!"_ he got up and started walking around, a maniac smile spreading on his wild face. "The _back window!_ Ah, yes!"

"Sherlock, would you just _tell me_ what you've found out?" John walked out of the kitchen holding two cups of coffee. He sat one down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and sat down onto the couch.

Sherlock turned around to face him, his face incredulous. " _Don't you get it? The back window!_ Not the back seat, not the back side, not the number plate, but _the window!"_ But no realisation hit John's face, and he laughed, amused at the stupidity. Then he stopped, remembering that people found laughing at them offending. Just then, his phone rang, and he immediately received it.

"Yes," Sherlock glanced at John, who sipped at the morning coffee. "Another? I'll be right there."

He threw his phone onto the couch and raced around, putting on his things. "Guess it's time to check if I'm right. You coming?"

John still looked confused but got up. Sherlock raced ahead, calling a cab.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the scene. This time, it was a woman of about 34. Lestrade and his team had also just arrived. Without greeting, Sherlock quickly got to the car. _Married but divorced, Has a child, Right-handed._

"There's a child!" he heard John exclaim and quickly glanced at the back seat. A boy of about 6 years old was bleeding severely from his head wound. John quickly ran up to the child and checked his pulse, and his white face became relieved somewhat. "He's still breathing, but barely. Call the ambulance!"

"What?" Lestrade took in the view of the car.

"Call the ambulance!" As John treated to the boy's wound, Sherlock stared, fascinated. He had forgotten that John was a doctor, and an army doctor at that. Quickly, he shook himself and moved around the car. _Again, hit from the back. 5+ years in use. Domestic abuse had been happening, which is why she left her husband and took her child._

When he got to the back window, a slow smile spread in his lips, and he laughed outright. The surge of adrenaline and excitement pulsed through his veins. Yes, this is what he lived for. To be not bored, to prove that he was right. Lestrade, intrigued by his sudden outburst of happiness, moved to his side. "What?"

" _The back window!"_ it barely came out more than a whisper as he laughed. " _Don't you see?_ Every single victim had something covering the back window! The first were stuffed animals, the second were anime stickers, the third had a blind on the back window, the now this woman has a baby seat that blocks the back window! Ha!"

John came back from getting the boy safely onto the ambulance, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who was just standing dumbly beside him. "Tell me, how long has it been since the crash?"

"Uh — about 15 minutes," replied Lestrade, his brows creasing. "But—"

Without listening, Sherlock took off, racing along the road. _A middle-aged person, strongly likely to be a woman, with its front crushed up and yellow paint on its number plate._

He ran for about 20 minutes when he came across a parked car with its front bashed in and the number plate sprayed with yellow paint resting on the side of the road. He slowly crept up to the driver's seat window. _10+ years in use. Baby seat on the back seat, but not recently used, in fact not for about 2 months._

A woman with dark circles under her eyes sat in the driver's seat, calmly sipping at a take-away cup of tea. Her sunken eyes roamed aimlessly on his face. Her grubby blond hair was all tangled, and she had makeup smudged all over her face. She looked like she had been living inside her car for a long time.

"Hello," said Sherlock, acting up mock kindness. He stretched his lips into a fake but convincing grin. "Um, sorry, but you were a bit over speeding…"

"No need to act," whispered the woman. Her wispy blond hair shone blindingly in the bright morning light, and she raised her pale blue eyes to meet his stare. A small smile played on her lips. "You and I both know why you're here."

Always the one to quickly drop off his acting, he let his fake grin fall. "Yes. We know, don't we? And why you did it?"

Just as he said those words, the police car arrived behind. John got off the car and came running to his side, but Sherlock stood, unmoved. "The back window, they were all blocked. You lost a child recently, haven't you? About two months ago? The baby seat, it's not used recently, at least not for about 2 months. All of the toys sprawled on the back seat proves it. Spent days in your car, yes? About a month, I guess from the state of your hair, your grubby skin, and the leftover food. The flies and bacteria had taken over it, but not entirely, so about a month. I'm guessing that your child was killed in an accident where he — yes, he, guessing from the baby supplies you have back there — strayed to the back of the car, and the driver, not seeing the child because of _something_ blocking their rear window, hit the child. You just saw when the car hit, you saw that it wouldn't have happened if only the back window was not blocked. You grieved the death of your child, and then something inside you broke. You started to have unreasonable — yes, unreasonable, don't question me — rage for everyone, _everyone_ with their back window blocked. You just started to spend your life in the car about a month ago, and you've been killing — or crashing into — anyone with their back window blocked up by something. Also, you have parted ways with your husband, are you not? Otherwise, he would've taken care of you. He would never have let this happen. Am I right?"

John stared at him in awe, but he only focused his eyes on the woman, who by now had moved on to flip through the photos of her son. "Yes," she whispered. She tenderly kissed the old photo. "The stupid, _stupid_ driver had his back window all blocked up by paintings, useless _paintings_. My son stumbled across the back of the car, chasing after a stray ball, and he—"

She stopped there to choke down her emotions, but she soon laughed, a manic fire dancing in her eyes. "He _died,_ didn't he? Just because of that driver's stupid _paintings._ I lost all hope, and that stupid _husband_ of mine ran away, choked in his own grief. He never did care for me. I spent my life in this little car, looking at my son's old photos. Then one day, I saw a man driving with his back window blocked by a painting. If only it hadn't been that cursed _painting,_ I might have just ignored it. But no, it had to be a painting. I just had an impulse, and I crashed into the car, hard, without thinking. I was prepared to die. But I survived, and the man died. Silly, tedious things. I moved on, when I suddenly got scared. I blocked up the number plate with a spray paint. I was sure that I would get caught that night, but I didn't. Then I saw another one with her rear window blocked by stickers, and my cursed impulse took hold of me again. Again and again, I crashed. Again and again, I survived, they died. I lived in constant fear, I was scared to death. But I kept doing it. I've probably gone insane."

"Sherlock," John tugged at his coat, a clear warning in his voice. John could recognise a psychopath when he saw one, he realised. But this woman's story intrigued him. He moved in closer. "And then?"

"And I got away," sighed the woman. "until now. But I'm not scared anymore."

Suddenly, she leapt forward, a deep growling sound gurgling at the back of her throat. Sherlock drew back quickly, though not alarmed. He'd seen enough insane things to be surprised. Lestrade and his group moved in quickly and secured the handcuff around the woman, who was by now drooling. If he hadn't backed away, she might have ripped off his throat.

As he walked away, John followed him. With a sideway glance, he smirked. "Seems like it's gone, then."

John stopped next to him, his face puzzled. "What?"

"Your limp." Sherlock turned around, a small grin playing on his lips. But this time, it was genuine. "See, I told you that it was psychosomatic. You've totally forgotten about it in the excitement, haven't you?"

John looked down at his feet. Then, slowly, he began to laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're right. Like always."

Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock, who was walking back to Baker Street with Dr. Watson. He half-smiled, though with a tinge of sadness. He wished Sherlock knew that he was there for him when he needed him, too.

"Seems like freak's found a friend, then," sighed Sally. He glanced at her with a slight frown. He never liked her calling Sherlock a 'freak,' but every time he told her to stop calling him that, she seemed to grow more determined to call him the name.

"Yes," he replied, staring at the two darkening figures. "An epic story, isn't it? The adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

* * *

***Phew! Thank you for reading my story! Also, I'm currently desperately looking for Beta Readers for this fic, so if you're interested, please PM me and we can talk :)


	2. Encounter

***Hi! Sorry that I didn't post sooner… I was very busy. Also, please keep in mind that I do not live in England or even a country that speaks English, so some(or most) of the facts might be inaccurate and my some sentence might not make sense. :p

Please enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 2. Encounter.**

It had been a few months since his memorable first meeting with Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective. True, it had been somewhat irritating and annoying to go everywhere with his brilliant royal highness Sherlock, but John couldn't deny that it had been a very interesting, fun, and even happy few months. His frequent nightmares have somewhat subsided. He wasn't sure if it was the knowledge that someone was there when he woke up or having a constant companion that comforted his mind.

But something stirred inside John, something he fearfully suspected that was something more than mere friendship towards his flatmate. He felt hot and awkward whenever he found himself getting in a too close, too dangerous position, though Sherlock seemed oblivious to what was deemed as appropriate and inappropriate. Though, judging from his love of murders and serial killers, he was far from a normal human being.

Still deep in his thoughts, he put Sherlock's cup of tea down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. To his slight annoyance, Sherlock merely stirred.

"You know, _you_ could make morning tea for a change," John said pointedly.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, but he remained in his 'thinking' posture. Hands together just beneath his chin. "What for?"

He sighed, giving up. Sipping at his tea, he flipped through the newspaper, eyes skimming for new murders that might interest Sherlock. The things he did when he was bored… God, he didn't even want to think about it. Clearing his throat, he eyed at a dead body on the papers. "Sherlock, what about this? Uh — the title reads 'Suicide or homicide? The mysterious death of Ann Smith—"

"Ah, boring. It's apparently a suicide."

"How so?" John squinted at the page, skimming through the paragraphs to find the 'obvious' clues. " _I_ don't see anything."

"Because you're an idiot," sighed Sherlock, his head rolling backwards as his eyes danced around, trying to find something to keep him from getting bored. John arched his eyebrow. He wasn't remotely offended by now, so often had Sherlock insulted his intelligence. Snapping his head back up, Sherlock jumped up from his seat to fervently walk around the flat. "Gah, I'm so bored. Boring, boring, boring, boring!"

"Okay, calm the hell down!" yelled John. He leaned back against his chair, still staring at the article to find the clues. Sherlock's shoutings had subsided into mutters.

"Something to distract me… oh, where are the cigarets!" Sherlock set out to look for the cigars John had taken care to hide well inside his room. He could hear Sherlock upsetting things to try and get the thing he had tried so hard to stop craving.

"Sherlock, please, just calm down and go through your blog. I'm sure that there's _something_ that might interest you."

Sherlock plopped down onto his couch, his long, slender fingers caressing his temple. With a grunt, he pulled out his laptop and logged into his blog, _The Science of Deduction._ John turned on the telly, wondering if any new murder that might interest Sherlock had happened. An interview with a lady who seemed to be crying came up. Sherlock glanced up barely before he became immersed in his blog again.

"I — I… He was a good boy. He would never, _never_ run away. I mean, we loved him, he loved us. He is my whole world." The woman broke down sobbing, and John felt uncomfortable, as if he had any part in her distress. He glanced at Sherlock to see if he had glanced up, but he was only focused on his computer screen. He cleared his throat. "Um, Sherlock? Wouldn't it be nice if you found the poor lady's son?"

"What? Ah, no, too boring."

"Boring?" he almost spat out his tea, and he shakily sat the cup down as the woman kept sniffling. "Sherlock, a mother is crying at the loss of her son—"

"Yes, yes. As Mycroft says, 'caring is not an advantage.' Sentiment."

John stopped, and he suddenly felt sad for Sherlock. He was incapable of caring or loving. He was made that way. "Did he tell you that?" he said quietly.

Sherlock looked up at his change of tone. He sighed, annoyed, and massaged his temples with his fingers. "John, I _just_ said that I do not think that sentiment is a good thing, and now you're carrying out an emotional scene—"

John held out his hand. "Sherlock, I'm not going to hug you or say something sentimental or anything. Just one question. Do you really believe that 'caring is not an advantage'?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, of course. Sentimental clouds your judgement, especially when you need it the most." He looked inquiringly at John, as if trying to find out if he was correct or not. For some reason, John's heart ached for this poor man. He was broken.

"Sherlock, what made you like this?" It was a very quiet question.

"Nothing made me. I made myself," muttered back Sherlock. Then, he cleared his throat. "Now, you said only _one_ question. Funny enough, I counted two. Oh, look, the mother's crying now."

John knew that he was purposefully changing the subject, but he let him get away with it. "Yeah."

Suddenly, the screen changed. It was a dark room, and the footage of the distressed mother still kept buzzing in and out of focus. John stared at the screen, his brows crinkled. "What—"

"I have the boy," rasped a rough voice. The screen had now gone black. Sherlock leaned forward with his 'game face' on. "Sherlock Holmes, do you hear me? I have the boy. Come and play now."

The mother's face came back up on screen, and she wore a horrified expression. "Who — What — Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, seems like I've got a case, then." Sherlock jumped up from his couch and put on his coat. "Let's hope it's a good one."

...

When they reached Scotland Yard — He really didn't want to go into the den of idiots, but John insisted on it — they went in for Lestrade, who had been clearly waiting for them.

"So what's this all about?" asked Lestrade. He nervously glanced around, wetting his lips. "You know, the abducted child and all."

"Yes, yes, we know why we're here, thank you Graham." He inwardly smirked as John glanced at him and Lestrade groaned comically. "Anyway, where does that boy's mother live?"

Just then, his phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hello, Sherlock." It was the raspy voice on the telly. Sherlock straightened up. _Oh, this really will be a good one._

"Yes, yes, hello, let's get right down to business, shall we? I rather detest formal greetings and the sort."

The voice laughed harshly. "Jim Moriarty sends his love."

 _Jim Moriarty._ The name… Ah.

"Ah, yes. Now, shall we get down to business?"

"I give you five hours."

"Five? In a hurry, are we? Why don't you describe where the boy is to me, eh?"

"Five hours," the voice whispered, and the line was dead.

"Who was it?" He turned to see John and Lestrade staring at him.

"The kidnapper. He'll give us five hours. Working for… Jim Moriarty."

"Never heard of the name… right. So, here's the address of the mother."

He barely glanced at it before tucking in his phone again and reaching for the door. "Come on, John."

…

They were riding in total silence as Sherlock thought and he occasionally glanced at him, fascinated. Those long fingers twitching slightly, his pale eyes fluttering now and then, and his surprisingly full and soft lips occasionally mumbling out softly as he voiced out some of his thought processes. Suddenly, he felt hot and awkward, and he felt his cheeks grow hot. He quickly turned to stare out the cold window. He couldn't risk Sherlock looking at him right now.

He really wanted it to be just friendly feelings. He badly, so so badly wished it was. But he wasn't stupid enough, inexperienced enough to not be able to recognise the feeling. He tried his best to ignore it, but it wasn't easy. He knew that Sherlock didn't feel anything more than friendship towards him and that he never will feel anything more. He just wasn't the kind of person.

He was too afraid that Sherlock would freak out and leave him alone forever to talk to him about his feelings. He wished it away, he tried to ignore it, he tried everything. He even went out on a date with a few women he wasn't even very much interested in to try to forget. He knew that he couldn't afford to have these 'sentimental' feelings, as Sherlock might say.

He closed his eyes.

…

He rang the doorbell of the house. It was well kept, he noted, and quite clean. _Second-use. Owner has a sever OCD, though it should be very hard to keep it clean since there is a boy in the house. Though, not anymore._

"Are you — are you from the papers?" came a sniffling voice of a woman, interrupting his train of thoughts. He put on his _so-sorry-to-interupt-I-am-so-sorry-for-you_ face.

"No, no, no. I'm Sherlock Holmes. And this is Dr Watson. We're here to help find your son as much as we can."

"Oh, do come in, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson." The lady started crying, thick tears running down her lined face. Inwardly, Sherlock grimaced. He never was good with sentimental scenes.

"Um, hello," muttered John as he stepped into the household. The lady sat them down on a couch.

Sherlock leaned forward, changing his expression completely. "Now, what's your son's name?"

The woman looked too disheveled to notice his difference in manner. "Oh, oh, my poor son… his name is Henry. Henry Brook. He was my whole world after…"

He let his eyes roam over Mrs. Brook's features. _Widower. 40+ years old._

"How old was Henry?"

"7 years old," sniffled Mrs. Brook.

"Have you had… ah, well, any _contacts_ with the kidnapper?"

"No, not that I'm aware of." Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at the remark. Almost all people were not aware of very significant and important details. Suddenly, Mrs. Brook looked up. "Oh, oh! Maybe…"

Sherlock and John followed her to the garage. Mrs. Brook pulled out a long blade of grass. It was unusually thick and green. John seemed to deflate next to him with disappointment, but he wasn't arrogant enough to discard small things like that.

He turned the green grass in his hand. The words _Jim xxxxx_ were etched on it. _'Jim Moriarty sends his love.'_

"Thank you Mrs. Brook, I think this would be very useful in finding your son."

…

John leaned back against the wall as Sherlock analysed the data from the grass. _Just a mere blade of grass, for heaven's sake._ He really was brilliant. He felt insignificant and stupid in Sherlock's presence.

They only had about an hour now. They — well, Sherlock — had to hurry up if they wanted to save the child. And after seeing his mother just now, he wasn't sure if he would be able to stomach his guilt and disgust if they failed to save — let alone _find_ — the boy.

"Fascinating," muttered Sherlock.

John smirked. "Are you stealing my expressions now?"

Completely ignoring his remark, Sherlock picked up dirt that had been extracted carefully from the grass. "Still has the dirt. We can track the place down."

"Mmm." He barely listened to what Sherlock said and just stared at him, so intent on analysing the data from a single blade of grass. It really was fascinating.

"John?" he flinched as Sherlock called his name. He could feel his face reddening, and he cleared his throat.

"Hm. What?"

"Come here." He felt a slight twinge of annoyance, but he frowned it away.

Sherlock was staring down at the microscope. He fished out his phone out of his suit pocket and handed it to John, who looked down at it. "What do you want?"

"Text these exact words to the blocked number. _Brompton or Greenwich?"_

" _Brompton?_ The… the cemetery?"

"Yes, yes, it doesn't matter. Have you texted it?"

"Um… yes." Sherlock didn't move, so he sighed and dropped it back into his pocket. "So… we're waiting for the response?"

"Yes."

"What if he doesn't respond?"

"Oh, he will."

" _Sherlock._ We don't have time for one of your _games._ There's a boy out there, kidnapped, who will die if we can't save him. _We. Have. To. Hurry."_

Just then, the phone buzzed. Sherlock didn't show any sign of acknowledgement. "Oh, for God's sake!"

Sherlock finally glanced up, looking slightly surprised. "What?"

"Can't you pick up your phone? Do I have to check every message for you? Oh forget it." He roughly yanked the phone out of Sherlock's pocket and opened it. "He says _Come one, detective, make your deductions."_

Sherlock sighed and looked up from the microscope. Standing up, he put on his coat and scarf. "Brompton, then."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock smiled and opened the door. "He likes drama. If he's going to kills a boy, better do it in the cemetery. Sets the mood, doesn't it?"

…

He impatiently drummed his fingers against his knees as they drove to Brompton. Time was running fast, and it was a long way to Brompton. He glanced at his watch. They had 15 minutes left.

"Come on, come on!" he growled under his breath. John glanced at him, but he didn't look back. His mind was intent on winning this game.

Finally, they arrived at the Brompton Cemetery. The blades of grass Moriarty had etched his name on were everywhere here, lush green. His eyes searched the ground for any recent pressings that might indicate footprints, but there weren't any in sight. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he scanned the cemetery. "John, let's spread out!"

"Did you call the police?"

"Yes, on their way!" _Police,_ he thought distastefully as he fan through the gravestones. _Always late on the action and only distracting otherwise._

Lestrade and his squad arrived, the siren screaming. People were starting to stare at them. He could hear them shouting. " _Spread out!_ Find a boy of 7 years old!"

 _Blood Traces. Food prints. Gloves. Toy. Anything._ He frantically searched the ground.

"Ah… for God's — Sherlock!" He whipped his head around to see John panting on the ground. When he approached him, he saw what was lying on the ground. Henry Brook.

John was sputtering on the ground, looking slightly green. The boy was lying silently in the stream, his eyes closed and his skin pale. Definitely dead.

He let out a frustrated growl, his chest heaving from running. Another game lost.

Just then, his phone rang again. _Blocked Number._

"Yes," was his panted reply.

"Hmm, I'm disappointed, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, you cheated, so you may as well be disappointed with yourself."

"I _cheated?_ I'm not the kind of killer who _cheats_ , Mr. Holmes."

"Well, if you're going to lie about it, okay, then." He glanced at Lestrade as he rushed over with his people and gagged at the sighed of the dead boy.

"Let's at least hear it, then. Why do you think I cheated?"

He laughed harshly and barked into the phone. "You killed the boy before exactly 5 hours. The boy's been dead for… how long? At least an hour."

"Ha! Trying to trick me, are ya? Well, I'm not going to fall for it."

"No, _the boy have been dead for at least an hour._ Do not try to trick me. You know that it doesn't work."

"And I tell you, _I did not kill the boy until it was_ exactly _five hours."_

"Then who killed him?" he muttered. His eyes searched Henry's face, his body. _No blood. Bruises around his neck. Choked to death. Have been dead for about 1 hour._ But how? The killer says that he did not kill him until it was exactly 5 hours. But how had he not noticed that the boy was already dead?

"Anyway, I've got a girl, now. Very pretty, you are." The voice cackled, and he could hear a young girl's sniffling.

"Where is she?"

"Oh, make your deductions, Mr. Holmes. I give you three hours. This time, do better, won't you? I wouldn't want to harm this little pretty face…" And then the line was cut off.

He looked down at the cold body of the dead boy. John was squatting down next to him, his hands to his eyes as if to block the scene. Lestrade's medical aids started approaching the corpse. "No, everybody don't touch the boy!"

"What? Sherlock, he's dead. This isn't want of your bloody games. _A boy is lying dead,"_ said Lestrade, looking incredulously at him.

"Yes, and we need to make sure that we don't make the same mistake next time. John, examine the body. Cause of death, and hour of decease."

"Hang on, next time?"

He turned to look at Lestrade. "Yes, next time. He's got another, a girl this time. He'll give us three hours. We need to hurry."

After Lestrade went back, John got up to examine the body. He was still slightly green-looking, but the initial disgust and surprise seemed to have passed. He gently turned the boy's head side to side. "Eh… cause of death seems to be… oh look."

John turned the boy's head over to let them see the skull. It was bent in slightly, as if hit by a blunt instrument. "It seems… cause of death, blow to the head."

"What? Blow to the head? What about those finger-shaped bruises on his throat?" pointed out Sherlock. He dropped down to take a closer look.

"Yes, he'd been choked, but after death."

He stopped dead and looked up at John. "What did you say?"

"He was killed by the blow to the head, not because of choking. He was already dead by then."

He quickly got up and straightened his coat. He could feel a wild smile spreading on his lips. "Oh, this is going to be _fun."_

"Sherlock, there's a boy lying dead. Not a very good timing."

"Who cares about timing? The _game is on."_ He rushed to the road to get a cab.

…

They sat in total silence as they rode back to St. Bart's. Even while deeply immersed in his thoughts, Sherlock found himself wondering if John was angry at him. He also found himself wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He'd never thought twice about what others thought of him. Interesting. He decided to explore. He cleared his throat and ventured, "I observe that you are disappointed and/or angry at me."

John snorted. An angry snort, Sherlock noted. "Huh. Yeah. Good deduction, Mr. Holmes."

He frowned and glanced at him. "Since when did you call me _Mr. Holmes?"_

"And since _when_ have you noticed when I am pissed off?"

"Hm. Fair enough. But that's not my point."

"Get to your 'point' then, detective."

This really wasn't normal. John was almost spitting at him. He raised his eyebrows. John sighed and said, "listen, Sherlock, this is not a game. There is a person lying dead because we weren't fast enough. A _child_ lying dead."

"I am aware of that."

"Then you don't treat this like one of your little _games._ There are lives at stake, Sherlock. _Children's lives."_

"So what do you suggest I do?" _This wasn't going too well._ John's face was getting darker and darker by second.

"Pst — I don't — I —," John sputtered. "Well, you could be a bit more _serious_ and not treat it like it's a Christmas present. Care for the children's lives."

"Would caring for them help me save them?" He wasn't trying to annoy John, though he knew that it sounded like it. He was genuinely curious to see how ordinary human minds worked. Do they really believe that sentiment will help save their friends and families? Is that why they express such sentiment?

"I — no." John stared out the window. Sherlock inwardly sighed. _I knew that I would only make things worse._

…

He was angry. He was angry at Sherlock for taking this not seriously. He was angry at himself for treating Sherlock so harshly. He was angry at himself for loving Sherlock so ferociously even after finding out — well, not _finding out,_ obviously, since Sherlock himself had pointed out that he was a 'high functioning sociopath' — that Sherlock was seemingly heartless, he still loved him pathetically.

"John," muttered Sherlock. He didn't respond, and only then did Sherlock seemed to remember their conversation in the cab. He looked a bit more uncertain but continued. "You need to find this girl's parents."

" _Me?"_

"Yes… unless you don't want… to?" Sherlock searched his face helplessly. Somehow, even in his angry mind, he found the attempt adorable. _Wake up, you idiot,_ he scolded himself. _Don't let his puppy eyes get to you._

Finally, he gave in with a sigh. "All right. What's the address?"

"Must be one the news somewhere… ah." Sherlock clicked on the news article that read _Missing girl… related to the Henry Brook Case?_ He scoffed, incredulous. " _Of course_ it's related. They really are slow, aren't they?"

"Hang on, how do you know if that's the girl we're looking for?"

"The kidnapper, he sent me her picture," replied Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"Yes, _obviously."_

Sherlock ignored him and continued, "name… Emma Johnson."

"Yes, but how are you going to get the address just by that?"

"There's always a number on the 'have you seen this girl' flyer. We just need to find them… ah. Here you are, the number."

He huffed and took out his phone. "Yes, Hello, is this Mrs. Johnson?"

The woman on the other end of the line sounded like she had been crying. Her voice was muffled and strangely choked. "Mmh, yes, and you are…?"

"Ah, I am… I'm Dr Watson, Mrs. Johnson. So sorry to hear about Emma."

"Yes, she's such a sweety…" And Mrs. Johnson drifted off into another sob. Finally, she spoke again. "You from the press?"

"No, no. I… am a companion of the detective, Sherlock Holmes, and I think we can help you find your daughter."

There was a small hiccup on the other end. "Wh — You can find Emma?"

"Yes, I believe so, but we're not entirely sure, you should tell us all you can about Emma —"

"Oh, please do! Here, write down my address, hurry! I'll get some cuppa ready." The line was abruptly cut off, and he sighed. _John Watson, always the sidekick of Sherlock Holmes,_ he thought moodily.

…

When he got to the Johnsons' house, he rang the doorbell. Mrs. Johnson immediately opened the fragile door and hugged him with full might that he almost choked. _The woman was sobbing on his shirt,_ he noted distastefully. _And a new shirt at that, too._

"Oh, come in, come in!" When Mrs. Johnson finally released him from her choking embrace, he finally took a good look of her. Her face was blotchy, either from crying or alcohol — more likely both of them, since she didn't seem very sober. He estimated that she had about 3 years left at this rate of drinking — and her body was enormous. Her stomach spilled over her jean band, and she huffed at every step.

When they got to the living room, Mrs. Johnson practically pushed him down onto the couch and handed him a cup of tea, almost spilling the hot contents of it on his jeans.

"Um, thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I really am sorry to hear about your daughter."

"Oh, how sweet…" replied Mrs. Johnson, and her eyes began to water. Sensing danger, John hurriedly patted her back and said, "Yes, so sorry. But we need to know everything we can about Emma to find her."

"What can I say, she was a pretty young child, never stomped around like those dreadful things… well, and as you can see, I'm not very young, am I? I'd wanted her for a long time, but she just wouldn't come. And then, finally, boom! I'm 50 and I'm pregnant." She laughed somewhat wetly, her throat rumbling.

"Ah, okay, listen. Did you receive… anything, anything at all since your daughter's disappearance?"

"Receive? I — no, I don't think so."

Just then, the doorbell rung, causing him to start. Mrs. Johnson muttered something under her breath and shuffled to the door. Grunting, he followed her.

No one was there when she opened the door. She swore harshly, and he looked at her, alarmed. She turned to go back inside when he caught sight of a dirty teddy bear on the door step. Frowning, he crouched down to take a good look at it. Its purple fur was ruffled and caked with dirt, and its ribbon was torn.

"Mrs. Johnson?" She huffed in response. He picked the bear up and showed it to her. "Do you know this particular teddy bear?"

Her unfocused eyes — definitely drunk, at least a little, he noted — roamed over the bear aimlessly before something sparked. Her gasp was almost comical as she clutched at her heart. "That's — that's Emma's bear, that is."

"Emma's bear?"

"Yes, she carried it around everywhere. Called him 'Emma's bear.' She love it so much that she wouldn't let me wash it."

He brought the little bear up to the light to get a better look. "Was it caked with dirt when she was playing with it?"

"Ah, no, I wouldn't let her do that, would I? I'm afraid that it _was_ a little dirty and frayed at the time but it wasn't this bad…"

He turned the bear over. Mrs. Johnson gasped at the back of the bear, as did he. It was scribbled in red marker — uncomfortably resembling blood — _Jim xxxxx_ "Mrs. Johnson, I think this will help us find Emma. Now, I need to hurry… Thank you for all your help, and sorry again."

"No worries!" she hollered after him as he ran to get a cab. He checked his watch; only an hour and a half left.

…

"Sherlock!"

He started as John banged in through the lab, clutching a dirty, purple teddy bear. "Oh, collecting dolls now?"

John ignored his remark and tossed the bear onto the table. Wrinkling his nose, he picked it up with his index finger and thumb. It was very dirty. "What might I deduct from this?"

"That's," John was gasping for breath, evidently having ran up the stairs. "That's Emma's — the abducted girl — bear. When I was visiting the mother, the doorbell rang and we got up to get it, but no one was there. Instead, on the doorstep, this bear was sitting. Mrs. Johnson personally identified it as her daughter's bear. She also said that it was never this dirty, so maybe the kidnapper took it from her when he abducted her and sent it to her mother for us to puzzle out?"

Gingerly turning the bear, he saw the red marker scrawled across its back; _Jim xxxxx._ His lips instinctively curled into a half-smirk, half-smile. This Moriarty, he really _did_ like to play a game, he thought. Even more so than himself, which was very surprising.

"Sherlock," interrupted John. He was still catching his breath, but had never looked more serious. "We don't have much time left. _We need to save this girl,_ okay? I won't be able to — just — just take a look at it, alright? Maybe you might be able to tell where the girl is."

"Of course I can," he muttered without thinking and inwardly winced. He was very proud and _arrogant,_ as many called him, but he didn't want to be a show-off to John, not after their disagreement in the cab. "Let me just take a… look at it.

"The dirt is badly caked on the bear's fur, so clearly a field or an outdoor space, then. The bear's torn badly, not slight enough to be caused by many times of use or fingernails nor serious enough to be caused by a knife… so torn at the bramble or branches then. A park? No, too visible. A forest. Let's see…" He carefully picked up some dirt from the bear's fur and placed it on the petri dish.

After various stages of testing and analysing, he was certain. "The Epping forest."

He sprang up from his chair and reached for his coat. "Come on, come on! The kidnapper's not going to wait for us, you know!"

John, who had been frozen until now, started. "Um. Yeah. Right."

Running out, they grabbed a cab. Panting from running down the stairs, he shouted, "Epping forest!" while phoning Lestrade.

Once they arrived, he ran into the woods. "What's her name again?"

"Um, Emma. Emma Johnson," stammered back John.

"Emma!"

"Emma!"

"Emma Johnson!" He ran through the dark woods, glancing down at his watch. 10 minutes left. If the same intruder that had killed Henry hasn't killed her already, they might have a chance of finding her.

He stopped dead when he head a very low whimper, just barely audible over the wind. He carefully stalked towards the sound of the whimper. When a view of a young girl came into focus, he hollered, "John! Lestrade!" before dropping down to take a look at her. She was curled up into a small but tight ball, and she was visibly trembling.

"Emma Johnson, is that you?" he said softly, gently laying his hands on the girl's shoulder. The clothing was badly torn and her skin was covered with scratches, probably from the brambles around here. Her arms were tightly woven around her knees, locking her into a feeble position. Picking out some leaves out of her hair, he pulled his cold leather gloves off and laid his hand on her arms. She was cold.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to look at John hurrying through the woods. Lestrade with his medical aid were following his lead, looking troubled. He nodded towards the girl, and John dropped down next to him to take a look at her. After carefully taking her pulse and checking her body temperature, John said, "She's out cold. Couple of scratches, nothing serious. Shocked."

"God, what've he done to her to pass out?" muttered Lestrade as his medical aids put the girl onto the patient stretcher.

Just then, his phone rang. Breathing hard, he fished it out of his pocket. _Blocked Number._ "Hello?"

"Hmm, managed to save her, yes? Must be so proud of yourself, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, yes, what did you call me for?"

"Tut tut, great detective. Your job requires patience, does it not?" the voice cackled into a harsh laughter, playing mock sympathy.

"Yes, and it's wearing thin."

"Oh, bored already?"

"For God's sake!"

"I give you an hour Mr. Holmes. One. Hour. You need to find someone you care about. Or rather, who cares for _you._ Have fun finding out who it is." The line was cut off.

His immediate response was to glance at John, but that was absurd. He was here with him. He couldn't have been kidnapped. And Lestrade, — he'd never admit it unless his life depended on it, but he did care for the Detective Inspector — he was right next to him, fussing over the girl. Mrs. Hudson?

 _1 new text message from blocked number._ A photo of a room, a cold metal room… with smokes? There were faint wisps of white… _something_ curling around the cold metal walls. The room was entirely made of metal. "He broke his pattern," he muttered.

"What did he say to you?" said John and looked up at him.

"That he had someone I cared about… who cared for _me."_

…

Although he didn't see it because he was too absorbed in decoding the message the kidnapper/killer sent him, John's heart dropped. Was it really that obvious? His _caring_ for Sherlock? Was it obviously written all over his blog? He knew that it would sound to moony and romanticising. His uncontrollable train of thoughts went on before the thought hit his brain. It couldn't be him. He was standing right here.

Beside him, Sherlock was still muttering to himself, oblivious to his mini panic-attack. Really, Sherlock _was_ a genius — ridiculously genius — but also _ridiculously_ ignorant in some areas. He was pretty sure that his emotions and thoughts were clear as day on his face when Sherlock said 'who cared for me' — not that he was complaining that Sherlock didn't notice.

"A _coldstore!"_

Having been deep in his thoughts, he started when Sherlock exclaimed this and looked expectantly down at him. He felt a little flutter in his heart. _No John, you are_ not _going to want this man. No, you will have to fight them down._

"Huh?"

"Those wisps of white things? Not a smoke, it's cold air. So, a metal coldstore in London. We'll be able to find them easily, I'm sure there aren't many coldstores…" Fishing out his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock looked up the coldstores in London while John composed himself back into reality. Suddenly, Sherlock made a tiny high-pitched sound down his throat like he was excited. He showed his phone screen to him. "John. UK coldstore. Matches all the information from the photo. It's at least 40 minutes away, and at this hour, the traffic's sure to be jammed. Let's hurry. Lestrade! Come to UK Coldstore, there's been another abduction!"

Sherlock was running towards the exit in such a flurry that he barely managed to catch up on what he'd said before running after him.

…

Watching the two men hurry to catch the taxi, Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock really did get off on this. But so did Doctor Watson, in some ways, though he learned to be more appropriately-acting. Sally Donovan _tsk-tsked_ after them with a disapproving frown. His heart gave a light flutter the way it always did when Sally came close to him, but he did feel a pinch of annoyance.

"You really shouldn't do that, you know," he muttered. Sally looked up at him with her _why-the-heck-do-you-care_ face. He grimaced. He knew that this might be running his chance with her, but Sherlock Holmes was his… _friend._ Yes, he would go so far as to say that. Even though that might not a mutual feeling. "I mean, he _did_ solve a very difficult puzzle in under three hours and saved an abducted girl. That's _something,_ right there."

"Whatever he does, he's still a violent psychopath. He does crime-solving to get high, for God's sake. It's his alternative to getting on drugs."

"Watch your words, it's 'high-functioning sociopath,' not psychopath. He might come back right now and yell into your face for your words, you know."

Sally glared at him and looked absolutely livid. _Oh God, what've I done now._

…

Sherlock was quiet during their ride to the coldstore, not unusually. He often brooded and sulked or simply thought while in a cab. John, mostly divert his attention from staring at Sherlock, cleared his throat and said, "So. Figured out who he'd kidnapped?"

Sherlock started and glanced at him. He had been clearly thinking about other things. "Oh. Um. Maybe."

"You haven't, have you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, gulping down his embarrassment. "We'll know when we get there."

There was a short silence. He sighed and said quietly, "Aren't you worried?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, until now, it were children we didn't even _know._ Now he'd got someone you… care about, someone who cares about _you._ Isn't it natural to be worried?"

"Huh," scoffed Sherlock. He turned his pale green-blue-gray eyes to look at him. "Natural. I don't feel human emotions that way, John."

Something deep inside him stung, but he kept on going, ignoring it. "So you aren't worried or… feeling anything at all, then?"

"Caring is not an advantage," replied Sherlock simply.

 _There it goes again,_ he thought. _'Caring is not an advantage.'_ He wondered if Sherlock really did believe that. Would he not… _care_ if he, John Watson, was taken? Would he be just another dead body on a slab for Sherlock to call 'fascinating'? He didn't want to find out.

He nervously glanced down at his watch. 20 minutes left. Letting his mind wander off again, he tried to guess who the kidnapper had taken. He was out of the option… Lestrade? But he'd been right next to them when the kidnapper phoned Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson?

He considered the wordings carefully. Often, the answers to the riddles were in its exact wordings. Someone Sherlock cared about… or rather, who cared _for_ Sherlock. _Cared._ What was the synonym of cared?

Oh. _Oh_. He was too wrapped up in his own feelings for Sherlock that he'd completely overlooked the one other person who obviously 'cared' for Sherlock. Cared… _loved. Molly Hooper._

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"Do you think it's Molly?"

"Molly?" Sherlock turned his incredulous face at him. "Seriously, Molly Hooper?"

He hesitated, wondering if he should tell him that Molly… liked him. Was attracted to him. It didn't feel like it was his place to tell him that.

"You know, she… cares for you. Very much. Perhaps even more than any of us." That wasn't true. He cared for Sherlock more than anyone else in the world. But no, he had to repress his feelings. _Control, control._

"Hm. How's that so? I thought no one cared for me." The last sentence wasn't bitter, only matter-of-fact. Like he was simply stating the truth. And that made John's heart throb for Sherlock.

"That' not true, and you know that," he said quietly.

Sherlock smirked but it dropped almost immediately. "Do I?"

…

As soon as they arrived in front of the coldstore, he almost jumped off the cab, letting John pay the driver. The sky was darkening now. He glanced as Lestrade and his squad arrived a moment later. "Fancy opening up that for us?"

Lestrade merely nodded and opened the door. Approaching the confused workers inside the coldstore, he held up his police ID card. "Police. We need to inspect this place immediately."

"Sherlock," began John beside him. "How are we going to find Molly inside this place? I mean, it's sort of… huge."

 _Huge_ was an understatement. It was _gigantic._ It would've taken a person a day to just go through all of the rooms. He squinted down at the photograph the kidnapper had taken. _A relatively small room compared to the others in the coldstore. Very cold, judging by the wisps. All metal…_ "The map! Where's the map of the coldstore?"

"The map, please," muttered Lestrade to one of the workers. The man, confused and scared, scrambled to get the map.

When he was finally handed the map after impatiently muttering, he hastily traced his fingertips on the paper, trying to connect the dots together. "Here! Follow me!"

They raced through the maze of the cold rooms, goosebumps covering their skin. His mind was only focused on remembering the route to where Molly was kidnapped. Finally, he almost knocked into a cold metal door. It was looser than the other doors because of the recent opening, but it was still jammed because of the cold.

"Molly?" he hollered. His voice bounced around in the metal corridor. There was a small whimper inside. "Molly, hang on there!"

Together, he, John, and Lestrade crashed into the door, forcing it open. Molly was tied by a rope and was sitting against the cold wall, her lips blue and her eyes scrunched shut. John was the first to run forward and take a look at her. He quickly walked towards her and crouched down next to her. "Molly, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes cracked open. Her voice was barely more than a croak. "Sh — Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly, it's me. Now focus, listen to me. _Did you get a look at the kidnapper?"_

"Sherlock, she's in shock. She needs to calm down and warm up a little before she can say anything."

"But—"

"Doctor's orders," said John firmly and set off to loosening the rope around Molly's body. Even though it was freezing cold in here, John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her, all the while staring pointedly at him.

He _had_ been worried, although he would never admit it. Clearing his throat, he took off his scarf and wrapped it around Molly's neck. God, she was ice-cold. She was shivering visibly, and her skin had taken on a blue undertone.

Suddenly, Molly opened her eyes again and looked directly at him. "Sherlock," she began in a small voice, but was cut off by a violent shiver. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Sherlock. He said — he said that he wants to meet you. Roland Kerr."

"Roland Kerr," he murmured. He glanced at John to check if he'd heard, but he was busily arguing with Lestrade to let Molly alone. "Yes, thank you. You should go to the medical aids and warm up a bit."

Soon, she was whisked away by Lestrade's aids and wrapped in a blanket. As he tied his scarf back on, John raised his eyebrows at him. "So, what do we do now?"

"Well, we get a good night's sleep and track down the kidnapper tomorrow."

"Hang on, did I just really hear that? 'A good night's sleep'? What, the great detective Sherlock Holmes?" John smirked a bit.

Waving his hand as if to dismiss the idea, he muttered, "yes, yes, you heard me perfectly. Even I need to sleep, eat, and rest, no matter how boring or tedious that is."

John's smirk grew even larger, and he decided to just ignore it. "Come on."

When they arrived at their flat, he plopped down onto his couch and tucked his legs into his arms, developing a fetal position. John went immediately to the fridge to check if there was something to eat. Of course, there wasn't.

"Sherlock, you wanna have dinner?"

"Hm? No, I want to _think."_

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna go out and buy something from the store, alright? There's nothing in the fridge."

"Mmm."

"So… I'll be right back in twenty minutes."

"Mm."

As soon as the door closed, he jumped up from his seat and rubbed his hand together. A grin spread across his face as he carefully checked outside the window to make sure that John was really gone. _Oh, this is going to be a fun night._

It was fully dark when he headed out and got into a cab. He muttered to the cab driver, "Roland Kerr."

In about twenty minutes, he arrived in front of the college. No car parked outside. _Clever._ He could've gone to the police with the car number.

He looked up at the identical two buildings. 'Normal' people would be puzzled at which building they should go into. But Sherlock Holmes knew better.

When he entered a dark room(the door was slightly open), he was greeted by the sickly syrup voice of Moriarty. "Well, here we are at last. I've been wanting to meet you ever since I read your blog."

The light suddenly turned on, and he turned around to see Moriarty slowly approaching him. He stiffened. "Hmm. Well, so did I after hearing your name from one of your… _clients."_

Moriarty's syrupy laughter echoed down the long room. "Oh, you're pleased to see me."

"Maybe I am."

Moriarty was circling around him now, chuckling softly. "Oh, Sherlock, how _charming_ you are."

"Funny, that's not what everyone else tells me. Apparently, I am an 'arrogant sod.'"

"Oh, that's what _ordinary, boring people_ think. Aren't they _adorable?"_

"You were the one who killed the first kidnapped child, weren't you? Got… _bored."_

"Oh, you caught up on that, huh? I sent another killer to kill that stupid boy. Knew that you would be more… _compelled_ to play the game if there was a proper murder. I love murders. So do you, sweety boy."

"Get to your point," he said sharply. He wasn't going to be played by Moriarty's mind game.

Moriarty finally stopped in front of him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he suddenly cupped his chin in his hand. Moriarty's breath was hot and wet against him as he breathed into his skin, " _I want you."_

Alarmed, he jerked back. His face was hot, but he tried to ignore it. "Well, that's a wide field. You want me to do what?"

Moriarty stuck his tongue out and licked his lips. It reminded Sherlock of a snake, licking its lips in anticipation of eating its prey. "It means, _I want you."_

"That doesn't really narrow it down, does it?" he muttered.

"Oh, you know what I mean. I want to touch every part of your body until you begged for mercy."

He smirked at Moriarty's words. "I never beg."

"Well, there's first time for everything, isn't there?"

"Tell me, are you a virgin?" Moriarty's eyes roamed over his body, hot and sticky.

"I do not quite see the point of this conversation."

"Oh, you are, aren't you? I _love_ new toys. Makes it easier and more fun to break, since they've never been broken before."

"Is that what you intend to do? Break me?"

"Oh, no no no no. That's too obvious. I _hate_ obvious. No, Sherlock. I'm going to break you and your _pet."_

"My pet?"

Moriarty chuckled softly, his laughter rumbling at the back of his throat. "Oh, you're going to _love_ this."

Before he could raise his eyebrow, Moriarty clapped his hand once. The sound coldly echoed down the empty room. Feeling uneasy, he quickly took out his gun and pointed it at Moriarty. Moriarty, however, seemed unfazed.

"Oh, no, dear, you don't." Moriarty smirked as a red sniper's dot appeared at his head, dancing teasingly. "Watch it, or my assassins _will_ kill you."

Suddenly, there was a shuffle of footsteps, and a tall man entered the room. But no… he wasn't alone. He was holding onto a leash…

 _Oh God._

John was brutally chained into a leash designed for humans, and his face was puffy from being punched over and over. There were spikes on the inside of the collar. Every time the man holding the leash tugged him forward, he gagged as the points of the spikes dug into his neck, forming new bruises. There were red stains over his lips, and his left eye was barely a slit.

…

 **Thirty Minutes Earlier**

He walked downstairs,his stomach growling for food. His heart was light. They've stopped two more possible murders from happening. He even let himself hum. He opened the door, ready to go out and get some food, when a stranger knocked.

Opening the door, he said, "Um, hello?"

"Doctor Watson, is it?" The man was at least a foot taller than him, so he had too crane his neck to see him in the eye.

"Well, yes. Who are you?"

Suddenly, the man swung a bat at his head, and he was knocked into the wall. Choking in surprise, he tried to fight back, his soldier instinct kicking in, but he was too light-headed and wounded to do any damage. He could feel hot blood oozing out of the wound at the side of his head. He croaked, "Sherlock," before passing out.

When he woke up, there was an uncomfortable feeling at his neck. It was pitch-black, so he couldn't see anything. Groaning from the pain in his head, he raised his hand to feel the wound, but was stopped when his hand ran into a metal chain. Slowly, he reached for his neck, where he could feel sharp metal points digging into his skin. His hand closed around a dog collar, and his blood ran cold. His breathing becoming heavier, he felt for the part where the leash and the collar was joined, and felt to the end of the leash. He came in contact with a cold hand.

"Wha—"

A cold finger pressed into his lips, shutting him up, followed by a syrupy voice. "Hush now, sweety, let's wait for your daddy to come."

"Sherlock," he instinctively called out. His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Where— Where am I?"

"Oh, no need to know that, Doctor Watson."

"Where. Am. I?" Even when he was dishevelled, he was still Captain Watson. After all, he'd invaded Afghanistan.

Suddenly, there were brown eyes right in front of him, glinting. They were murky brown. He could feel hot, sticky breath on his skin as the man breathed these words to him: "Let's wait for your daddy to come, shall we?"

…

"John," he whispered hoarsely. John looked up at him, his brown eyes going in and out of focus. "What have you done to him? Is he okay?" The words were out of his lips before he could stop them, and he winced. He'd shown his weak spot.

The man handed the leash to Moriarty, who took it, smirking. When the man left the room, Moriarty softly chuckled and tugged the leash upwards to see John eye-to-eye. John helplessly choked, and Sherlock involuntarily stepped forward. Moriarty whispered softly to John, "Oh, aren't you a pretty pet? I've no wonder Sherlock likes you."

"Why are you doing this?" said Sherlock, the hand holding the gun trembling.

Moriarty ignored him completely. He raised his hand to John's face, his pale fingertips slowly tracing John's face. "Pity that I'm going to have to break you."

"Well, I refuse to be broken," hissed John, gritting his teeth. Even in the situation, Sherlock couldn't help but admire John's courage. Then again, he was a soldier.

Moriarty's grip on John's face tightened and he drew his face closer to him. Sherlock felt his body tense, anticipating attack. However, the maniac slowly smiled and released his face, letting him drop down onto the cold floor. John was panting slightly.

"Sherlock, I'm going to give you a choice."

"Well, very generous of you, I should say," he snarled back.

It was meant to be a sarcastic comment, but Moriarty smiled widely, looking pleased with himself. "I know. I can be a little _too_ generous sometimes."

"Just get on with it," muttered John.

After a glance at John, Moriarty continued in a sickly soft voice. "Ah, good, you've got a gun. Now listen. Either you can shot Doctor John Watson—"

"No," he cut in. He could feel his heart tightening. He'd promised himself that after being bruised and hurt by numerous people, he'd never let himself care again. Until John walked into his life.

"I beg your pardon?" said Moriarty in mock offended tone. His mouth was wide open in a comical _O._

Cursing himself, he gritted his teeth. "Go on."

Moriarty smirked. "Either you can shoot Doctor Watson, or my assassins will kill you both."

He sharply inhaled, but tried to cover it up with an unconvincing smirk. "Well, that's hardly fair, is it?"

"Hmm," scoffed Moriarty. "Anyway, time to choose."

John looked up at him, his hazy eyes trying to focus. "Sherlock," he croaked. "Sherlock, you have to shoot me."

"No," he replied sharply, his eyes darting between John and Moriarty. Then, addressing Moriarty, he said, "Why are you doing this?"

The psychopath rolled his eyes and let out a long drawl. "Oh, I don't know, the same reason I've kidnapped and killed those kids. Just tryin' to have some fun."

John was breathing heavily. The spikes of the collar had dug into his neck and formed angry red scratches. His eyes said these words plainly: _please, just get it over quickly._

But he wasn't going to be played by Moriarty like this. This was just what Moriarty wanted, for him to kill his one and only friend in the world, making him lonely again. The sniper's dot was dancing across John's heart now, and he felt his heart tightening uncomfortably again. Carefully, he moved the gunpoint to John from Moriarty. His hand trembled slightly, and John squeezed his eyes shut. However, it fluttered back open and he stared right into Sherlock's eyes. He was trembling and was obviously scared to death, but managed to choke out, "Sherlock, you need to do this."

He closed his eyes and urged himself to think. There had to be a way out of this, there always was. _Think, Sherlock Holmes._ Sometimes it was the most obvious thing in the world—

Oh.

He opened his eyes. Trying to hide his smile, he carefully aimed the gun at the leash chain. _One wrong move and it'll penetrate John._ He needed to concentrate.

Moriarty was triumphant in the false sense of victory. He smirked and quirked his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Oh, so soon to get rid of your pet now that your life is hanging on it? Thought to be fair, he _is_ boring. Or should I say was?"

Completely ignoring Moriarty's taunting, he desperately caught John's eye. Was it possible to communicate through eye contact? He concentrated on the message, hoping beyond hope that John will catch the message. To his astonishment, John gave a very tiny nod, barely perceptible. Confident now, he clutched the gun with both of his hands in an attempt to steady the gun.

"One." Moriarty's smile grew wider as he counted down.

"Two." John laid his palm against the floor in anticipation.

"Three." The gun fired and broke the chain, and before Moriarty could react, Sherlock sprang forward and grabbed John's hand. They ran towards the door as Moriarty furiously shouted, "Fire!"

They were almost there… Bullets were raining down on them, but he dodged them expertly, having been on a gun-chase like this. He turned to look back to see if Moriarty was chasing them. The psychopath was standing still at the spot he had been when they took off, and he was momentarily confused by it.

Suddenly, pain exploded on his thigh, and he gasped. His knees buckled, and he almost took John down with him. "Sherlock!"

"I'm—" he gasped. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Trembling staggering, they got out of the room and fled down the hall, their footsteps echoing down. When they were well out of Roland Kerr, they trudged into one of the narrow, dark paths. He could barely walk, his knees buckling at the pain.

As soon as they stopped, John quickly sat Sherlock down onto the pavement and dropped down in front of him, frantically searching for the wound. His right thigh was burning, and his pants were heavy and wet with blood. John inhaled sharply. "Oh, God."

"It's — I'm fine," he gasped.

"Give me your scarf."

"What?"

He was surprised when John shouted at him, "Give me your scarf!"

Tentatively, he untied his blue scarf. Captain John Watson as well as Doctor Watson was leaking in, demanding and professional. When he handed him the scarf, he tied it hastily around his right thigh, just above the wound to stop the blood flow.

"Get up, we need to go to the hospital."

"I'm fine, really—"

"No, it's going to get infected otherwise. Get up! Let's take a cab. We've no time to loose, alright?" John's voice was hard, but some of his softness lurked out when he said the last sentence. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly got up.

…

He was putting his Captain John Watson face on, but he was panicking inside. He tried to suppress all of his emotions down — like his feelings for Sherlock — but it wasn't working properly. His breathing was quickening second after second.

"You sure that you're okay?" said Sherlock, trying to bite back a groan as he shuffled his legs. "You look like you've had your fair share of beating."

"No, I'm…" he glanced at Sherlock again to make sure that he was okay. "I'm fine."

"You might want to take of that thing, though." Sherlock's voice was breathy. No wonder that we was gasping in pain.

"Hm?"

"The — that collar. You're earning some strange looks, you know."

It was true. The cabbie was glancing at him through the back mirror. He'd totally forgotten about it in the adrenaline and his worry over Sherlock. "Oh. Yeah. Right… How do I get this off?"

"Erm…" Sherlock reached for his collar, and he flinched as Sherlock's bare fingertips grazed his neck. _For God's sake,_ he scolded himself. _Can you not focus on your_ emotions _towards him for once?_ "Err… Yeah. There."

"Hm," he coughed, feeling his face grow hot. _Great. Now I look like a bloody teenager blushing over his crush._

Sherlock was eyeing the scratches on his neck, all the while griping onto his thigh. Some of the scratches were bleeding weakly. Then, he felt Sherlock's eyes roam slowly over his face, taking in the bruises and cuts. Feeling uncomfortable and hot, he hastily muttered, "I'm fine. They just punched me a few times."

"Mmm," was Sherlock's mere reply.

Finally, they arrived at the hospital, and he had to practically carry Sherlock to the emergency room, since he was barely able to walk. The nurses and doctors resting on the couch of the waiting room were shocked when they came in as a staggering mess. The doctors immediately recovered, however, having seen many injuries. After Sherlock was taken into the surgery room to take out the bullet out of his thigh, he plopped down into the leather couch in the waiting room and blankly stared at the TV screen.

After a while, a nurse came in, looking tired. Taking off her surgery gloves, she plopped down onto the chair opposite him, eyeing him wearily. "You look pretty beaten up, too, you know."

"Um. Yes. I'm fine."

"So, who shot your… _friend?"_ The nurse was saying 'friend' like she wasn't really meaning it, not really. _Boyfriend_ was implied. He could feel his face growing hot, but he coughed it down.

"Ah, just… random person. Didn't really see his or her face."

"Hmm."

After thirty minutes of awkward silence, another nurse came in. "Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes's companion?"

"Oh. Yes, yes I am." He stood up, wobbling a little. The nurse raised his eyebrows. "Um, yes. I'm fine."

"You sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm fine. I can treat myself at home."

The nurse didn't look convinced, but he didn't push the matter any further. "Right. Follow me."

They went through many hallways, interwoven like a web. They finally arrived at a room called 'emergency patients.' Sherlock was scowling in the room, not only from pain but also from dissatisfaction.

"I'm fine!" he was hollering at the top of his voice at the doctor treating to him. "For God's sake! It's just a gun wound, and on the leg at that! It's—" He broke off and clutched his leg, obviously in pain.

"Sherlock," he muttered. "Stop throwing a tantrum. We can leave after three days, okay?"

Sherlock glanced at him and pouted, looking undeniably adorable. _Stop Fangirling,_ he scolded himself. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and looked at him sternly. Finally, Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back against his pillow. "And where are you going to sleep?"

"Right next to you while _you_ sleep."

* * *

***I really hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm still looking for a Beta Reader desperately! Please PM me if you're interested in Beta Reading my story :)


	3. History

***Hi! Sorry that it took so long to upload a new chapter… School + Fangirling + Procrastination led to this ;) Hope you enjoy this chapter! (Please leave review for what you enjoyed and did not enjoy; it helps improving the story:))

 **Thank you so much for my Beta Readers, goldensnitch0423 and Iniso!**

 **Ch.3 History.**

" _Five days._ You said _three days,_ John!"

Sighing, he gave the cash to the nurse, paying for the prolonged stay. _Great,_ he thought. _Another round of complaining._ "Sherlock, what did I say about complaining?"

"But really! _Five days! Five days_ wasted doing _nothing!"_

"Your wound was _healing."_ He meaningfully looked at Sherlock, pocketing the change. "In fact, still healing. Present-tense. The average hospitalisation date for gunshot wound is _minimum_ _6 days._ You're lucky. Or _un_ lucky. Whatever."

"But they made me wear those… those _horrible_ clothes. What are they, pyjamas?"

"Actually, yes. They _are_ pyjamas, in some ways. Patients sleep in those."

Sherlock snorted. He didn't say it, but John knew that the wound still hurt. Even though Sherlock was obviously trying not to limp, the limping was very bad. Try reasoning with Sherlock Holmes.

They got into a cab, Sherlock still complaining. "Really, you should have eaten those foods they give you in the hospital. It's disgusting."

"As a matter of fact, I did. I practically lived there with you, idiot."

Sherlock scowled at him. "Mmm."

When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock tried to run upstairs like he used to do, but almost toppled back down, biting back a groan.

"Sherlock, your leg wound hasn't healed properly, okay? You need to be careful."

"Ah — I just — for God's sake," Sherlock muttered.

Sighing, he moved forward to support Sherlock upstairs. It was going to be a long journey.

Trying hard not to focus on the way that Sherlock's body was pressed up against his, he grunted in the effort. Sherlock was trying his best not to rely on him too much, but he was helplessly flailing like a fish out of water. It was obvious that the pain was almost excruciating. Cursing, Sherlock muttered, "Aren't they supposed to lessen the pain while you're hospitalised? I don't see the point of staying there for _five_ bloody days only to return and feel the same."

"Shut up," he huffed. The exertion was making him breathless, yes, but the feel of Sherlock's body pressed against his and feeling the body rumble as Sherlock spoke was too much. His heartbeat rate was elevated dangerously.

They finally climbed all the way up, and he practically dumped Sherlock onto his couch. Gulping for breath, he said, "I think we should look to your leg; the climb up the stairs could have moved the gauze. Stay here, I'll go upstairs, and bring the medical supplies."

Sherlock huffed in response, also exhausted. Sherlock's dark lock of curly hair fell back as he dropped his head against the armchair, trying to return his breathing to normal.

When he returned with the supplies, Sherlock had removed his coat and was is in his blue dressing gown, idly tapping his fingers against the armchair. Clearing his throat to get Sherlock's attention, he sat down the first-aid kit by Sherlock.

Sherlock stretched his right leg. He really had long legs.

Suddenly, an uncomfortable idea popped into his head. He couldn't treat the wound unless he could see it… and the wound was on Sherlock's thigh. _His thigh._ _For God's sake,_ he hissed in his head. _Get your fantasies into control._

"So… um." He cleared his throat again. He felt heat creeping up his neck, and the harder he tried not to turn red, the redder he got. "I — I need to see the wound. So."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Then, it seemed to occur to him, too, and saying, "Oh! Yes. Right," he casually rolled up his trousers. John choked.

Sherlock's eyebrows went up again. "What?"

"I — nothing." He tried not to stare at Sherlock's pale, long legs. Carefully kneeling next to the wound, he removed the gauze. The wound was cleaned up by the nurses at the hospital, but fresh blood had come out of it from the exertion. Grimacing, he cleaned up the wound with a gauze, soaked with come cleaning medication. He flinched when his fingers brushed Sherlock's legs. He was uncomfortably aware of his elevated heart rate. _Get it under control,_ he told himself angrily.

"Ow," said Sherlock, very matter-of-factly. He didn't exclaim or curse, just quietly stared out at the window. It was almost like he was just saying it because he was supposed to say it.

When he wrapped it up with a fresh gauze, he stood up and turned away to hide his blushing. His face was practically radiating heat. "Done."

"Ah, finally." Rolling down his trouser again, he jumped up from the chair. _It must hurt,_ he mused. _But he must've experienced a lot worse than this._

When they've fallen back into their old ways, him sitting down on the armchair, blogging about past cases, and Sherlock pacing — or to be clear, limping — about the room, muttering about murders, body parts, and his boredom.

"It's been _five days_ since I've encountered proper murder! God, _I need a case!"_

John sighed and massaged his forehead. Typical day.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson peeked in. "Woo hoo!"

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," he muttered, already tired.

"Oh, you're back from the hospital, aren't you?" Moving to Sherlock, she slapped his bottom. "You need to be careful! I've been worried sick!"

"Yes, yes. Boring. Sentimental. Dull. _I NEED A CASE!"_

"For God's sake, Sherlock, keep it down!" he yelled. Flinching, Mrs. Hudson looked between the two disapprovingly.

"Ooh, not happy, are we?" said Mrs. Hudson, _tsk-tsk_ ing. She reached into her pocket and produced a parchment letter. "Well, you're in luck, Sherlock. I found this at the staircase. Looks like a client's message."

Sherlock snatched the paper from her hands, held it at eye-height, and sniffed at it. John looked resignedly at him, now used to his strange behaviour. He cleared his throat. "So?"

"Hm. Parchment paper. Brand that only used to come out in 80s—"

"Yes, all right, congrats to your brilliance, just open the letter. You do tend to overcomplicate things, you know?" He pulled the letter out of Sherlock's hand and teared it open. Sherlock scowled. Ignoring the dissatisfied noises in the background, he scanned the words — which made no sense to him — and handed it back to Sherlock. "Now _these_ are your specialties."

"Hm," grumbled Sherlock. He was still clearly ruffled by John's interruption of his _'deduction'_ moment. _He really did love showing-off,_ he inwardly sighed. Meanwhile, he squirmed uncomfortably, trying to ignore the heat on his face.

Sherlock was squinting at the words. "Hm. Fascinating."

"Fascinating? Does that mean not bored?"

Sherlock glared at him before turning back to the letter. "Are you hiding something from me?"

He flinched. "What?"

"You've got no obvious reason to be irritated or annoyed at me, yet you _are_ irritated. Very much so, I would say. Now, have you had any outer source of irritation? I'm inclined to say 'no,' since you've spent all of the past five days with me. From my experience, when people are trying to hide something, they tend to get more irritated, thus diverting the attention from the thing they are trying to hide—"

"Yes, all right, that's enough. Well, _now_ I've got a source of irritation, don't I? Shut up and solve the code, or whatever that is." He puffed out his chest, feeling uneasy. The room had become unbearably hot.

Sherlock merely pouted his lips, and got back to solving the code.

…

He didn't know why John was acting so strange. Something hidden from him. But what? He pushed the thoughts away to the corner of his head and focused on the letters before him. If there was one thing that he learned over the course of his invented career, it was that it was best to push back all emotions when he was working. Actually, it was best to just push all emotions back any time.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

" _Hi Sherlock,_

 _ULEGNWEATETIIMAN_

 _xxx"_

 _ULEGNWEATETIIMAN._ A code word? No, too little information to solve. Caesar shift? No, it didn't match.

"Some sort of a code?" John was peering at the letter in his hand. "From Moriarty?"

"Yes, from Moriarty. No, not a code. A cipher. I've seen these kinds before… where have I seen them?" _Rail Fence?_ "Think. Think. _Think."_

Oh.

"Oh!" he smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Grid cipher. _"_

He put together the letters in his head.

 _Until We Meet Again._

…

 **1993, Sherlock (5)**

He was five years old. It was his first day of school. He giddily packed his backpack, grabbed Mycroft's hand, and ran outside. He tried to calm his beating heart. _Control,_ he told himself. _Don't loose self control._

Mycroft was unusually quiet while they walked to the school. Sherlock, too excited and occupied, didn't notice, but Mycroft kept sending him glances. Sad glances.

When they finally arrived at the gates, he let go of Mycroft's hand, straightened his shirt, and stood importantly. "Goodbye."

Mycroft smiled.

He tried not to bounce as he walked towards the door. Children were gathered, and teachers were busily buzzing about, handing out classes and papers. _He was going to make friends._ He was determined. He would show his brother that he was _not_ only a slow little brother.

Finally, the classes were all settled. He sat down on a chair, put down his bag, and eagerly awaited the teacher.

He could never have guessed that the day was going to be a disaster.

"All right, all right," said the teacher. She was a woman of about 40. "Class, nice to meet you. My name is Ms. Stacey."

"Hello, Ms. Stacey," echoed the class.

"Good boy, good girl," soothed Ms. Stacey. "Now, let's do a roll call. Amanda?"

Thus, the first day of the school begun. As the time went on, Sherlock found himself more and more disappointed and bored. The classes were too easy and boring and _dull._ He knew all the things. The teacher droned on and later asked perfectly obvious questions and even asked them to _repeat things that they had just said._

More than anything, he was disappointed at the children. He had always been the _'slow one,'_ he had no idea that it was even possible to be slower than him. But no, these people were _clueless._ And not just the children, the teachers, too.

Despite his dismay and disappointment, he was determined to make friends and get everybody to like him. He would be surrounded by friends when Mycroft stood alone with his cake. He behaved himself the best he could with his chin up. _Dignity._ He wouldn't go around, introducing himself to the class like a class clown. So it was to his dismay when the teacher announced that they were all to stand up and introduce themselves.

When it was his turn, he nervously stood up, cleared his throat, and said, "Hello, my name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I am five years old, and I like science, chemistry, and —"

"Boring," muttered a boy next to him.

He felt his face flush up with anger and embarrassment. He stared straight ahead, determined to make a god first-impression "—and philosophy. I am also interested in human biology, physics, geology, astronomy—"

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock, dear," interrupted Ms. Stacey. "But we're running out of time. Could you wrap it up real fast?"

His face flushed again, but he puffed his chest and tried to look indifferent. "Well, I like solving puzzles and crimes. Thank you."

The teacher looked a bit taken aback at the word 'crime,' but smiled timidly. "Seems like Sherlock is a very intelligent boy!"

"I would have to lower my IQ a _lot_ to be labeled as 'intelligent,'" he remarked. "From my knowledge, my IQ is considered to be 'very superior' in Current Wechsler IQ test, 'upper extreme' in the KABC-II 2004 Descriptive Categories, and —"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," cut in Ms. Stacey with a tight smile. "Who's next? William?"

Breathing hard, he sat back down. The boy who had called science 'boring' was smirking at him, and other children were exchanging nervous glances.

A few minutes later, it was recess. All of the kids gathered around and chattered away, giggling like a herd of monkeys. _Stupid kids,_ he muttered to himself. It wasn't his fault that they were so _stupid_. It was the teacher's, it was the children's. Sitting alone, playing with his fingers while watching the kids around him laugh and play with each other, he felt ignored and _hurt._ He had been always ignored and looked over by his parents because Mycroft was obviously _'perfect,'_ but he was used to it. He had been so excited to go to school, to make friends.

For the first time, he felt _actually_ sad. A new emotion. He'd never quite experienced actual sadness before. Interesting. Though, he wasn't quite sure if he liked it much.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his shirt and smoothed his curly hair. Suddenly, a boy caught his eyes. He had sandy blond hair and blue eyes and freckles. Sherlock gingerly smiled. The boy merely glanced at him.

After twenty minutes of nervous sitting alone with his beating heart, he finally decided to approach the boy. After all, what could go wrong? Making sure that he looked his best, he slowly walked to the boy. It was clear that the Mr. Sandy Hair was popular; little girls were crowded around him, giggling and batting their eyelashes at him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Pushing his way through the crowd — no one paid any attention to him — he finally found himself in front of the boy. He cleared his throat. "Um. Hi."

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Mmm."

"I'm —" He cleared his throat. God, why did he feel so nervous? "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, you're the freak aren't you? The one who likes _science_ and _puzzles_ of all things."

"I'm not a freak!" he retorted defensively, his face flushing with anger. "And science and puzzles and crimes _are_ interesting!"

"They're _boring."_

"That's because you're too stupid to understand it!" he spat. The two glared at each other. The children around them gave them a wide berth, looking on and cheering for a fight. One or two kids were sniffling and crying.

"Children, children," trilled Ms. Stacey as she swooped in and set them apart. Being almost one-third the height of Ms. Stacey, he helplessly flailed against the teacher's arms. "Now, what's the trouble?"

"He called me stupid!" wailed the boy, sniffling.

"Now, Sherlock, you shouldn't call someone stupid."

"He called me a 'freak,'" he spat, breathing heavily.

"Jeremy, did you call him that?"

"Only because he _is._ He likes _science._ Plus, he's creepy."

"I'm not!"

"Boys!" said Ms. Stacey sternly. "Sherlock, say sorry."

"What for?"

"For calling him stupid."

"But he _is_ stupid."

" _Sherlock."_

" _Fine._ I'm sorry for labelling you 'stupid' when you should be labelled as 'idiotic.'"

" _Sherlock Holmes!"_

" _I'm not a freak!"_ he shrieked, finally loosing his temper. He hadn't been the one to call names first, so why was he the one being punished?

Ms. Stacey drew back and looked at him seriously, like _he_ was the troubled kid. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to call you parents for that."

"Well, they won't _care,_ so good luck with that."

Ms. Stacey narrowed her eyes, misunderstanding his meaning. She thought that he meant that they wouldn't care that he'd done something wrong. He really _did_ mean that they wouldn't care. They never did. Whatever he did, he was a disappointment to them compared to his accomplished big brother. No big deal. They would just huff and scowl at him for a few days.

He went to his chair and sat defiantly, daring anyone to come talk to him. Ms. Stacey just sighed, patted Jeremy's head, who was sniffling, and went back to her desk. Other children were starting to dissipate, muttering. Once or twice, he caught the word 'freak.' It hurt.

When the school was finally over, and after he'd heard kids saying 'freak' so many times, he trudged back to the gate. Other children were running happily into their parent's arms, being called 'my princess' and 'my prince.' For some reason, something bobbed at the back of his throat, making it burn. He swallowed.

Mycroft was leaning onto the school gate, checking his watch. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he raised his eyebrows and half-grinned.

While they were holding hands and walking back to their home, Sherlock managed, "Mycroft."

"Hmm?"

"They called me a freak."

Mycroft stopped next to him. "What?"

"Am I a freak?" he whispered.

"No, of course not," replied Mycroft. He turned to look at Sherlock. "Who called you a freak?"

"Jeremy. And the other kids."

"Ignore them." Mycroft resumed walking.

A single tear rolled down his cheek, though he tried everything within his power to stop it. His eyes burned. "I'm not a freak."

"No, you aren't."

"Then why would they call me that?" He tried to choke back his tears. Mycroft stooped down and wiped the tears off the tears that were now streaming down. Crouching down, he smiled and gingerly hugged him. Sherlock flinched. Neither of them were used to this. Fighting and yelling and glaring, yes. Hugging and comforting? Completely new area.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in his best soothing voice. "You're not a freak. You're just… different. They're the stupid ones."

"It's not — it's not my fault, is it?" His body was heaving, trying to stop the tears.

"No. They're just stupid. Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end."

He never knew that his heart could actually _hurt_ so much. When his parents _tut-tutted_ at him while patting Mycroft was painful, humiliating, but it never made his heart _hurt_ so much. Now, it reminded him that it, too, was a muscle by painfully squeezing in his chest. He felt like a rotten bark nobody wanted. He was just not likeable, not _loveable._

Mycroft slowly patted him as he gulped down the tears.

…

 **1993, Moriarty (8)**

He was eight. He was an abandoned child in a filthy orphanage full of filthy children. They were stupid, all of them. Inferiors, slaves. Meant to be controlled and manipulated. It wasn't _his_ fault that he was born to rule.

The first time a child called him a 'freak,' he felt sad, unwanted. It squeezed his heart painfully, and he cried himself to sleep. The teachers and advisors didn't care for him. They thought that he was a 'freak,' too, even though never said it. They didn't even bother to ask how he was feeling when he woke up next day with puffy eyes and hoarse voice.

But the second time, he felt angry. For the first time in his short-lived life, he was furious. Not the kind of angry when they take away your toy, but actually _furious._ He felt his heart squeeze painfully, but not with sadness; this time with anger. He'd tried to strangle the girl who called him that, but was forcefully ripped away by the supervisor. "What the hell are you doing?" the supervisor had yelled.

Always, always _he_ was the one who was punished. None of them cared, not really. He was just a 'troubled kid' to them.

By eight, he'd learnt to ignore all the hateful remarks from the other kids in the orphanage. Sometimes, they beat him when the supervisor was sleeping or had gone to the bathroom. The teachers didn't ask him about the bruises.

They were just stupid. Too stupid to do anything but beat him, taunt him. He learned to _enjoy_ the pain, just simply _let go._ It wasn't his fault.

It wasn't his fault.

…

 **1996, Sherlock (9)**

There was a murder.

He was intrigued when he read it on the papers. There was something _wrong_ about the summary, though he couldn't quite pinpoint it. Mycroft, of course, being the know-it-all big brother, had it all figured out, but wouldn't tell him.

"Tell me!" he whined, crumpling the paper in his fingers.

"Nope," replied Mycroft, licking his fingers as he reached for another cookie.

"You really shouldn't eat that, you know. You promised mummy that you'll try harder to loose weight."

Mycroft shrugged. "Your little mind won't understand."

"Tell. Me."

"Good luck figuring out."

Sighing, he turned back to the paper:

 _Carl Powers, 14, while attending a swimming contest yesterday, was seen to have a fit in a swimming pool in Marylebone, City of Westminster, London. By the time the lifeguards were able to drag him out of the water, he was already beyond help, and died on the deck of the swimming pool. Police raided the region and checked Mr. Power's locker, to no avail; there were only Mr. Power's clothes in the locker. There were no apparent causes on Mr. Power's body that would've caused him such a fit in the water, and police are baffled. For now, police are forced to assume that the mysterious death was caused by an unfortunate sudden seizure._

"I need to meet the police," he muttered. Mycroft snorted.

"Hm. Do you think that they would listen to you? They won't even listen to _me."_

"Well, they've got to. This isn't just a tragic seizure, it's murder." As he said 'murder,' a smile spread across his face. He always found murders and corpses interesting, provided that he wasn't the cause of it. "Wanna come?"

"Nah. Gotta finish the cookies before mummy and daddy comes back."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Huh. Well, get fat, brother." Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows and resumed munching on the cookie.

It was only a ten-minute walk, and the pool wasn't hard to find, since there were people and press people crowded against the police line. The pool was closed off for the day, and the security guards were holding the interviewers back.

His eyes flickering between the door and the security, he quietly slipped behind. His height was a rare advantage, making him appear insignificant and almost invisible — though he was tall for his age. People didn't pay much attention to him.

Quietly, he crept alongside the walls, looking out for any security or police. There were policeman buzzing about the locker room, examining each lockers. Soon, one of the police officer shouted, "All right, seems like there's nothing 'ere. Let's go out for a snack." The rest of them all mumbled their approval.

After they've all gone out, he skimmed over the locker's numbers. All of the lockers were emptied out except locker M204. He set on to going through the clothes in it.

Dirty and ragged t-shirt with the swimming team logo on it, baggy pants that was second-handed, his underwear… _ugh._ The pile of clothes positively reeked. He stooped down to the shoes compartment… only there weren't any.

 _Oh._

"There aren't any shoes," he whispered.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him under his armpit and dragged him back. His instincts and panic kicking in, he flailed.

"What the hell 're ya doing in here?" a harsh voice yelled. "It's a crime scene, for God's sake, not children's playground!"

"I'm not playing!" he yelled back, still fighting. "I'm _investigating!"_

"Oh ho, are ya, little _detective?"_

"There are no shoes!"

The man stopped trying to repress his movements and went still. "What?"

"Did you take away his shoes?" He finally turned around and got a good look of the man. He was in his late 50's, married, and incredibly fat. Possible heart condition.

The man frowned in confusion"What shoes?"

"The boy's! Carl Powers!"

"Wha — no, there weren't any. Get out of here. Now."

"Where are the shoes?"

"This is no place for a young boy like you. Get out."

"You need to find the shoes! It's important—"

"All righ', little detective, I'm taking you outta here." The security picked him up by his shirt and hauled him out of the gates, muttering about boys and intruders.

"You have to find the shoes!" he yelled after the security.

 _The murderer's got the shoes._ He tried to get around the security to examine Powers' locker again, but the man who kicked him out was glaring at him, standing guard.

Later, when he got back, he banged the door shut, ignoring Mycroft's staring. Finally, after he'd thrown himself onto the couch, Mycroft cleared his throat and asked, "Didn't go well?"

"Oh, finally stopped stuffing your face with cookies and noticed your brother's frustrations, huh?"

Mycroft sighed. "What's wrong, brother mine?"

"The shoes are missing, and they won't listen to me, ' _brother mine.'"_

"Hm. Figured it out, then?"

"Of course. It was perfectly simple," he growled back. Sighing, he dropped his head back against the head of the couch, letting his dark, curly lock of hair fall into his eyes.

"Hm," repeated Mycroft. "See? I told you. They won't listen to you. They won't even listen to _me."_

"Maybe," he retorted. " _Maybe,_ I'm better at persuading people than you."

"Ha. I doubt it."

"Shut up," he replied drily. "Well, if they miss the murderer, that's their fault."

…

 **1996, Moriarty(12)**

"Why don't you just go and kill yourself?"

Powers kicked his abdomen, making him cough. His lips were crusted with blood, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. _It's all good,_ he told himself. He grinned through his nosebleed. _You don't have to fear it._

"You fucking looser. Ha! Tell me, faggot, how does it feel like to be a looser?"

Spitting out his blood, he smiled. "Wonderful."

"What?" Powers stopped. "You gone mental?"

" _Wooonderful,"_ he repeated in a sing-song voice, rolling onto his back. "It's _aaaaaall_ wonderful and good. The pain. Oh, it _sooooooo_ enjoyable, you know? You should try it sometimes."

"Wha— Fucking mental, you 're."

" _Nah._ Really, you should try it. I could do it for you if you want."

Powers stepped back as he looked smirkingly up at him. "I'm getting outta here."

He stared after Powers as the boy ran away, his footsteps echoing in the cold hall. Grinning, he sat up. Leaning against the lockers, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his sweat and blood. Oh, he was going to make that Powers boy pay.

All his life in the orphanage, Carl Powers was his major bully, always beating him, insulting him when the teachers weren't there. And he was done tolerating and letting the boy get the satisfaction of seeing him beaten down to a pulp.

Powers had gloated as if he'd won an Olympics medal when he was elected as the orphanage's swimming representative. They were all here at the pool where the swimming contest will be held in a few minutes to cheer him on. Powers had taken him, Moriarty being his favourite punch bag, to the lockers room to 'warm-up' before the contest.

But little did he know that he managed to inject a large dosage of the botulinum toxin while Powers was busy kicking him. Sooner or later, the boy would have a seizure caused by muscle contraction, and hopefully die.

The teacher didn't comment on his wounds when he walked back out to the hall after cleaning the blood.

Thirty minutes later, they were all sitting on the pool deck bleachers, cheering on for the _oh-so-amazing-Carl._ Moriarty sat alone in the corner, quietly grinning. He glanced at Powers. He didn't seem visibly uncomfortable, though he looked as if he was a bit stiff. The boy was nervously pacing about at the deck, stretching his arms and legs. Moriarty smirked.

Finally, it was Powers' turn to compete. It was a 200m freestyle competition, and whoever finished first was the winner. Next to him, Powers' cronies were cheering him on while spitting insults at the other competitors. Some of the parents of the opponents turned around to glare at them.

"One, two, three, and… start!"

The pool echoed with screaming and cheering, and he scowled. Honestly, these people. They sounded like wild monkeys. _Sentiment._ Wasn't that the most powerful and idiotic emotion of human kind?

It was the second lap, and Powers was leading. His cronies were yelling insults at one of Powers' opponent now, who was in second place. A gangly boy of 14 yelled, "Fuck it up, you looser!"

Suddenly, Powers went stiff and started flailing, breaking his graceful movement in the water. Another crony of his, Matthew, crowed, "Aw, come on, mate! Beat the shite!"

Powers was sputtering now, and the lifeguards, sensing that something was wrong, ran forward. His whole body jerked and shuddered like he was being electrocuted. _Oh, isn't it wonderful,_ he thought. He dreamily looked at the form of the swimmer as he twitched in the chlorine water. To him, this was much more beautiful than the graceful strokes Powers used earlier. _So powerful, so raw_.

Some parents were screaming now, staring at horror at the twitching body of Powers. The other swimmers had stopped, too. The orphanage supervisor was yelling at the lifeguard to drag the boy out. Finally, one of the lifeguards yelled, "Oh, fuck it!" and jumped into the water. Dragging Powers' body, she came back to the deck, gasping for air. As soon as they got _oh-poor-Carl_ out of the water, they laid him on the deck and crowded around him. The woman lifeguard who had jumped into the water was slapping his cheek, calling his name. "Mr. Powers! Can you hear me?"

Not wanting to miss the moment when life drained out of the Powers, he jumped up and walked to the floundering body. The adults were trying to keep back the children from the apparently 'horrible' sight, but he could see clearly through their legs. Powers' eyes were glazed, as if veiled by a white fog, and he was sputtering up tiny bits of water. His body twitched limply.

"Dammit," breathed the lifeguard. She mounted on top of his body and started performing CPR. All the while, Powers merely sputtered. Eventually, his twitching dimmed and he lay completely still. A burst of pleasure erupted in his heart. It felt extremely _good._ To make people into _things._ Into objects without a single ounce of life left in it. As his greasy black hair fell in front of his eyes, he smirked. _He_ was the cause of this.

Finally, for once, _he_ was the one who had _control_ over something.

…

 **2004, Sherlock(17)**

He lay on the asphalt in a dark street. Groaning, he lay his head against the thin blanket. So many _thoughts_ in his head… it was like swimming in space, trying to find somewhere to land. He needed something to anchor him, to _distract him._

He reached for the syringe next to him. He sighed in relief and pleasure as he plunged the needle into his arm, letting the drug spread throughout his system. It was _marvellous._

He used drugs to cope. To be able to _breathe._ His heart had a constant longing and throbbing and _pain_ everyday. It never ceased. It tugged at him every time he _might_ have forgotten about it. It drove him crazy.

 _Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end._

He wished that he'd listened to Mycroft.

 _He given his heart to a 'friend.' Victor Trevor. Gave him everything. The two had been good friends when the were 15. Friends. Even the concept was dull to him now. He absolutely trusted Victor, followed him everywhere like a goddamned dog. He… he loved him. He knew it, somehow, that he really did love Victor Trevor. He thought Victor loved him back, thought that finally, he was good enough for someone. Victor enjoyed it, the sense of being a master. He controlled and manipulated Sherlock. Then, one day, suddenly, he wasn't good enough for him anymore, and he was cast away like a forgotten toy._

 _They all leave you in the end._

 _He was never good enough. He was always the 'freak,' who always let everybody down._

"Stop," he hoarsely whispered. Heaving a shuddering breath, he groaned, "Just please… stop." He brought the syringe up again to his arm. Maybe just a little bit more. 5ml.

He leaned into the blanket. His damp curls partly obscured his view of the sky above. He sighed in pleasure as the drug took care of his system.

The throbbing in his heart slowly melted away and he felt like drifting. He was lost in a sea, drifting, drifting down… He felt warm and it was _marvellous._

 _Victor Trevor, who had taken away his first kiss. On Christmas day, after they'd pickpocket a lady of her purse, they ran into a dark street, giggling madly. Sherlock hadn't been sure if they should be pickpocketing, but Victor had convinced him to do it. The adrenaline had been exhilarating, and he was holding a successfully pickpocket-ed purse. He turned to Victor, still giggling, when a pair of lips suddenly crashed into his, shutting him up. His heart had beat madly in his heart, and he'd moaned. That was the first time he'd orgasmed — but they hadn't had sex._

 _The next day, Victor didn't even acknowledge him. He was completely ignored. He tried to force Victor to talk to him, but he was coldly cast away. He'd just been a sex toy_.

He reached for the syringe again. Just a little more. 10ml. No one would care if he died, anyway. _He_ wouldn't mind, that was sure.

He groaned in pleasure as he felt the throbbing in his chest ebb away into oblivious bliss.

…

 **2009, Moriarty(25)**

"What d'ya want?" growled a middle-aged man. The tips of his hair were greying, and his stubbles stood out in the dim light.

He smirked. "The question is, what do _you_ want?"

"Listen 'ere, ya little shit, I'm 'ere to make a deal, not be treated like a fuckin' ant—"

Sighing, he whipped a couple of hundred dollar bills and threw it at the man. The dollars fluttered in the air and fell to the ground. "Booooring. Either take the money and kill, or GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" He relished in shouting. It was like freeing up everything in him; he never could resist a touch of dramatic.

The man flinched and hesitated. Moriarty raised his eyebrows. Clearing his throat, the man scrambled to take the bills off the ground and shoved it in his pocket. "Aye. Good day, sir." The man left the room.

"Huh," he scoffed as he slid back against his chair. He was bored, devastatingly so. He looked around the room he was in: a completely metal room that had rusts in the corners. He was the only one sitting there.

He had left the orphanage when he was 16 and roamed the streets. He loved it when he got into a fight. They would beat him into a pulp and a pool of blood, and he would just lie there, enjoying the pain. _It's all good_.

After they were done with him, he would get up and kill them, carving their skin with a knife. "Aren't you _beauuuuuutiful?"_ he'd whispered as he traced the tip of the knife along one of the bullies' jawline. "With blood trickling down? Now _that's_ the colour of passion."

He loved to watch the moment when life flickered out of their eyes; as their eyes dulled and turned into _things._ _It's all good._

He'd made quite a money out of killing and stealing. After he was done playing with their corpses, he took their purse, whatever they had, and helped himself.

Now, everyone kneeled before him. Money was power. Power was control. He had _control_.

Sighing, he went out and bought a newspaper, looking for any interesting crimes and murders. They were idiots, all of them. Seriously, if they wanted to conceal a murder, THEY DO NOT CHOP OFF SOMEONE'S LEG AND TAKE IT AS A SOUVENIR. Jesus. He thought everyone knew that.

Suddenly, a headline caught his eye.

 _Sherlock Holmes, self-declared Consulting Detective, solves the mysterious sauna case._

Sherlock Holmes. What a wonderful and interesting name. He dragged his fingertips across the detective's picture. He was handsome, really. With sharp cheekbones and a straight nose, and oh, _those beautiful eyes and lips._ It made him want to suck every part of his body and then slice the surface of the skin to make scarlet blood trickle across its pale surface.

He felt the corner of his lips curl into a smile.

 _I'm going to own you, Sherlock Holmes._

…

 **2017, Sherlock(29)**

He had just come back from St. Barts, after talking to Doctor Watson and arranging their meeting tomorrow.

 _Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end._

 _It isn't like that_ , he decided. Doctor Watson had just seemed nice enough and interesting enough to be an appropriate flatmate, nothing more. He even doubted if he would talk to him except on necessary occasions.

Frowning, he focused on Moriarty instead. He had just heard the name yesterday, when he'd caught a murderer. She had confessed that she was working under someone named _Jim Moriarty._ She'd said that the man was his 'fan.'

 _Moriarty._

He was going to remember that name.

…

 **2017, Moriarty(32)**

Finally.

I'm coming for you, Sherlock.


End file.
